That Guy From District 4
by RoyalHeather
Summary: In a world that grew increasingly more uncertain, the one stable thing Finnick and Annie had was their love for each other. The events of Catching Fire and Mockingjay, told from Finnick's point of view. Includes alternate ending for Mockingjay.
1. Prelude to Destruction

What Finnick said when he found out that tributes for the 75th Hunger Games would be picked from the existing victors would certainly have been heavily censored on Capitol television. But then, he was from District Four, and had picked up quite a vocabulary from the sailors and fishermen.

"What's wrong?" Aurelia stood in the doorway of the apartment, just out of bed though it was nearly noon.

Aurelia was a Capitol girl whom Finnick almost liked. She had nice eyes, a soft voice, and kept her hair the light blonde nature had made it.

If he could, Finnick would have spent more time with her, simply because she wasn't as pushy as his other "lovers." She could tell when Finnick needed his space, and gave it to him. But the Capitol had decreed that everyone could have a piece of Finnick Odair, whether he wanted it or not.

Well, f-k, they could have his body but they weren't getting his heart.

"Finnick?" Aurelia walked over to where Finnick was lounging in front of the television and leaned on the back of the sofa. "What is it?"

"They're picking the tributes for the Quarter Quell from the previous champions," said Finnick. "Same drill, one male, one female…"

One female.

Sh-t.

Sh-tsh-tsh-tsh-tsh-t.

"Finnick?" Annie was clearly confused as he jumped up and started yanking his suitcase out of the closet. "Finnick, what's going on?"

_They're not getting Annie,_ though Finnick savagely. _I don't care what they do to me but they're not getting Annie. She's not going back in the arena. Not even if I have to destroy the whole damn Capitol._ And he pulled so hard on the handle that it completely separated from the suitcase.

Finnick fell back, landing hard on his butt, the impact jarred tears to his eyes. To his constant disgust, Finnick was an easy crier. Unless his guard was up, any sort of emotional stress started the tears flowing. He'd gone through hell for that in school. During the Hunger Games, he'd had to work hard to make sure he didn't start tearing up.

"I'm going back to District Four," said Finnick, looking up at Aurelia. The tears disappeared and his voice grew rock-hard. "I need to be there."

"But why – " Aurelia's purple-blue eyes grew more distant as she realized. "Of course. Annie." She seemed to shrink in a little on herself, and her voice was resigned.

Finnick looked up at her, measuring. He'd suspected for a long time that Aurelia was actually in love with him, not just stupidly infatuated like most of his "lovers." In a way, he pitied her for it…

"Do you have another suitcase I could use?" he asked.

Aurelia nodded, biting her lip, and left the room. Finnick supposed she was crying.

His supposition was proved correct when it took her nearly fifteen minutes to "find" a suitcase. He used the time to order a hovercraft back to Four and collect his personal items.

An only slightly red-eyed Aurelia handed him his suitcase. While Finnick packed, she sat curled in a ball on the incandescent pink cushions of the sofa.

Finnick was ready in record time. He was probably leaving half his possessions in Aurelia's apartment, but he didn't care. All he wanted was to go home.

"Well…I'm leaving," said Finnick, standing by the door. "Bye."

He thought Aurelia wasn't going to do anything, but as he opened the door she rushed over and hugged him tightly. Finnick sighed and put one arm around her (the other held his luggage).

"Please come back," she whispered.

"Yeah, all right," said Finnick. Gently, he disengaged himself, holding her at arms' length.

Aurelia was actually quite pretty. Especially now, with her hair all tousled and the sun shining on the translucent rose fabric of her nightie. But what was more, she saw him as a person. Even if she didn't see the real Finnick.

"Aw, hell, Aurelia," said Finnick. "Don't cry." For her wide blue eyes were filling up again. "Look, I'll come back. Half the victors are old farts, and the other half are all addicted to drugs or alcohol. It shouldn't be that hard to win." He looked closely into her eyes. "That's not what you meant though, is it?"

Looking down, Aurelia gave a tiny nod. Finnick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, sweetheart," he said, tossing the endearment out carelessly, "you know me. I never stay with the same girl twice."

"Except Annie," whispered Aurelia, so quietly he barely heard her.

"Yes," said Finnick. "Except her." He started to leave, but on impulse stopped and kissed Aurelia swiftly on the cheek.

Her startled blue eyes were the last thing he saw before he closed the door and stepped onto the hovercraft.

* * *

"Finnick!" Riley Odair greeted his son as he stepped off the hovercraft with a one-armed bear hug, a grin splitting his face. Even the omnipresent Peacekeepers or the fact that his only son might be going back to the arena soon couldn't keep him unsmiling for long.

People thought Finnick was handsome. He always wished they could see his father. Finnick privately thought Riley was the best-looking guy he knew. Even at forty-two his tousled red-gold hair was still thick, his tall frame still lean with muscle. Finnick had inherited Riley's smile and vivid green eyes, but not his infectious charisma and sense of humor.

True, a lot of District Four woman had their eyes on Riley. But after losing Gaila, Riley never even glanced at a woman. Finnick didn't remember his mother much, but he knew her death had left a huge scar on Riley. Particularly because it had been so senseless.

"So how's the Capitol?" Riley asked Finnick the same question every time he came home. It was a routine. Finnick would step off the hovercraft, Riley would greet him and shoulder his luggage, and ask his question. Finnick always gave the same answer.

"Lousy."

Then he would ask _his_ question. "How's Annie?"

And usually Riley would say, "She's good," or, "She misses you, but she's holding up fine," or, "Lad, you are lucky to have a girl like her."

But not this time.

"She's all right," said Riley. He stared straight ahead as they walked down the road to the seaside victors' village. "She didn't watch the broadcast, of course…but someone had to break it to her."

"…And?" When Riley didn't continue, Finnick had to prompt him. He was dreading the answer, dreading it so badly his heart was pounding and his palms were slick with sweat.

"Well, she went a bit hysterical," said Riley. "But Ciara calmed her down."

"And she's okay?" demanded Finnick.

"She's perfectly fine," said Riley.

"You're sure?" said Finnick. "You're _absolutely sure?"_

Riley looked his son steadily in the eyes. "Positive," he said.

And then they rounded the corner to the victors' village and Finnick was finally, finally home. He forgot his father, he forgot where he was, he even managed to forget the Hunger Games as he held Annie as close to his heart as possible. She needed him too, he could feel that – her embrace was almost fierce and he returned the pressure gladly. At last, when their urgent need for each other had gentled, Finnick pulled back and looked Annie over.

His heart sank.

Riley had lied, or perhaps he just hadn't known. But it was clear – to Finnick at least – that Annie was _not_ all right. Her hair, usually so sleek and shining, was mussed, tangled a little. Her dress was wrinkled, as if she had slept in it. And in her eyes, a hint of _that _look – dear God, that haunted, heart-wrenching look – that he had hoped he would never see again.

"Are you – how are you?" said Finnick quietly. His voice was hoarse and he had to clear his throat.

Annie stared up at him, green-blue eyes huge. Then her lower lip trembled and she buried her face in his chest again.

"Oh, no – oh, sweetheart, don't cry," whispered Finnick, cradling her comfortingly and bringing his head close to hers. "It'll be all right, it will be, you'll see – "

Annie drew in a long, shuddering breath. Then she looked up with a wan little smile that just about broke Finnick's heart. "Of course it will," she said, with a brave attempt at cheer. "Of course." But the shadow of _that_ look was still in her eyes.

Finnick kissed her – gently, gently, like she was made of spun glass and flower petals – and then tucked her securely against his side. "Come on, mermaid," he said. "Help me get settled again." For the first time, he turned his attention away from Annie. Ciara, was standing nearby; now she came over and put an arm over Finnick's shoulders briefly.

"I'm glad you're back," said Ciara in her cool lilt. Her brown eyes were warm as they rested on her daughter and Finnick, but he saw the stress in them, the same worry in Riley's and Annie's and his eyes too.

Annie looked up and between Finnick and Ciara, reading the tension and interpreting it. Her eyebrows met. A lot of people didn't understand that Annie was intelligent. All they knew about her was that she was some poor mad victor from District Four. Annie was unstable, yes – and sad and sweet and scared and a hundred other things – but not stupid.

"Come on," said Finnick again. "Let's go." He and Annie walked down the path, Ciara and Riley falling behind. Finnick forgot them very quickly. All his attention was on Annie, the feel of her arms wrapped around his waist, her silky hair brushing his cheek, the way the sunlight looked on her skin.

As they drew nearer the pretty white mansions, Annie took Finnick's hand and began to pull him down the cobblestone path that skirted Annie and Ciara's house and led to the modified greenhouse where she kept all her ceramics work. Finnick laughed at the eagerness in her eyes.

"Got something new to show me?" he said. Annie smiled and tugged harder.

The greenhouse was a peaceful, sunlit place. The warm beams that filtered through the marbled, iridescent sea-glass touched everything with a soft glow. There were two wood-topped tables, and large cabinets to hold supplies and works in progress, and shelves lined with Annie's shell-like handiwork. One wall was decorated with scrolling vines and flowers, done when Annie and Finnick had spent a happy afternoon finger-painting on the smooth glass.

Annie danced over to one of the tables, where an exquisite porcelain seashell lay, the sunlight gleaming on its fragile white edges. "Well?" she said breathlessly. "Isn't it pretty?"

Finnick shook his head in wonder. "Annie, it's – it's gorgeous," he said. "How long have you – "

He stopped. As he had been taking a step forward, his foot had brushed something. Now he looked down and saw a lump of half-dried clay sitting on the floor, clearly torn off of a larger piece.

"What – what's this?" he said. Looking around, he saw more pieces of clay scattered about, some of them the shards of finished work. "Annie…"

She covered her face with her hands, and Finnick knew. This was Annie's reaction to the 75th Hunger Games.

* * *

Finnick was fairly sure there was a hidden camera and/or microphone in his bedroom. It made sense. The Capitol had the technology to put cameras and mikes all over the arenas, and they were all nature-y and sh-t. How much easier would it be to bug a house? Especially since the victors' villages were practically built by the Capitol anyway. And since the rebellion after the last victors' Victory Tour…there were more Peacekeepers than you could shake a stick at. Constant surveillance of the victors wasn't such a big step.

He didn't know exactly where the camera was, of course. But in Finnick's mind it was right in the corner between the ceiling and two walls, angled so that if he was lying on his bed, it was looking straight at him. Privacy didn't bother Finnick much anymore.

At any rate, it was convenient, having it "there." If Finnick was hacked off about something, or really upset, or just plain angry with the whole world, he would lie on his bed and rant to the imaginary camera. It was necessary, in a way. Therapeutic. He used the camera to vent his feelings, the same way Annie made pottery and Mags wove baskets and Riley wrote long letters to Gaila.

Late that night – the night he came back – after he had lulled Annie to sleep by telling her stories of swans and selkies in a low, singsong voice, he stole back to his and Riley's house, flung himself on his bed, and gave his emotions free rein.

He began by cursing the Capitol, raging at the cruelty and injustice of an institution that could take children and twist their world so that those who lived, lived broken. He expected it to end soon. Normally his rants lasted less than ten minutes. But instead of leaving him, his rage and horror and pain grew stronger and stronger until he was shouting at the pretended camera, only half-knowing what words were streaming out of him in the heat of his emotions. At last, at the height of his passion, he seized his pillow and forcibly hurled it at the corner. It hit the wall and then flopped rather pathetically to the floor.

Finnick stared down at it, chest heaving, his mad energy quickly ebbing away. For a long time he looked at the pillow. Then he pulled a shirt on with shaking hands and left the house, stumbling slightly on the moonlit path that connected the Odair and Cresta houses.

Annie's breathing was soft and light, like a butterfly, as Finnick slipped into her room. Her hands were folded under her pillow; the moonlight kissed her smooth cheeks, slightly parted lips, and pulled-back hair. She looked so sweet and fragile, so utterly at peace, that Finnick's heart clenched. _The Capitol wants to destroy that peace_, he thought suddenly. _Not just for her, but for everyone. Every last one of us_. Sudden anger flared up in his heart, but he wrested it down.

Instead, he sat on the bed next to Annie – carefully, so as not to jostle and wake her – and smoothed a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the curve of her cheek, traced the contour of her jaw. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to her temple.

Annie's breathing deepened, and her eyelashes fluttered, but she did not wake. Finnick took his shoes off with his feet and tucked his legs underneath him, lying down with his arm around Annie. He felt very still, very peaceful. Resting his cheek against her hair – ah, it still smelt like the wreath of violets he had made for her that afternoon – he closed his eyes and slowly drifted off to sleep.

Some hours later, he was awakened by Annie. She was having a nightmare.

Still groggy with sleep, Finnick pushed himself up on his hands. "Annie? Mermaid?" She moaned slightly and writhed feebly, blindly seeking an escape from the dream world she was trapped in. Finnick raised himself over her and fitted one hand to the side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Annie, love, it's not real…Don't worry, I'm here."

But instead of responding to the soothing influence of his words, she only seemed more distressed. A little cry of fear or pain escaped her lips and her head twisted out of Finnick's hand. Suddenly she arched her back with a half-choked scream, her hands clutching the sheets and the sweat running in rivulets down her forehead.

"Annie!" Finnick took her face in his hands, desperately trying to call her back from her nightmare. "Annie, Annie, darling – "

She cried out again, twisting and turning in his arms. Her seeking hands arched clawlike over the covers and Finnick grasped one tightly, hoping the pressure would wake her. But instead she tried to jerk her hand out of his.

"I'm not letting you go," whispered Finnick, bringing his face close to hers. "Annie, I'm never letting you go!"

Her eyes flew open, wide with terror, and her breathing was quick and shallow. "Silas," she moaned. "Silas…"

"He's not here," said Finnick, quietly, comfortingly, but also firmly. "He's gone."

But Annie would not be reassured. "Silas?" she gasped again, eyes searching Finnick's face.

"He's gone," said Finnick, grasping her hand tighter and placing his other hand on the side of her face. "He won't hurt you anymore."

Slowly, Annie's breathing slowed and her eyes lost their panicked look. Then, with a small sob, she turned and curled into a ball, scrunching herself into as small a shape as possible.

"Oh, Annie…" Finnick lay back down, pulling her against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, cradling her tenderly, but there was a hard knot of anger in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't enough what Silas had done – or threatened to have done – in the arena. No, his memory still had to haunt Annie to this day.

God damn that son of a b-tch.

* * *

"Good morning, Finnick."

"… Morning."

Riley grinned as his son shuffled into the kitchen, blearily running one hand through his tousled hair. "Did you spend the night at Annie's?"

Finnick nodded, covering his yawn with his fist. Plopping himself down on a stool, he drew the coffee pot towards him across the counter and filled a mug for himself.

Leaning on the counter, Riley watched Finnick with his usual grin. Damn morning people.

"So what's the plan for today?" asked Riley.

Finnick shrugged. "I dunno…might take Annie out…" He sipped his coffee, wrapping his long fingers around the mug.

Riley, sensing that intelligent conversation was at the moment beyond Finnick's capabilities, began cooking breakfast or something. Whistling, of course.

As Finnick's torpid brain began to revive itself, he registered something odd. "Why aren't you at work?" he asked his father. Usually Riley was out of the house and on his boat before dawn.

Riley shrugged. "Just felt like taking a day off."

Finnick's eyes narrowed. "You're a horrible liar, Dad."

Sighing, Riley put down the frying pan, his back to Finnick. "I just thought that…given recent events…you might want me around."

Finnick stared at his dad, suddenly and unreasonably touched. "Um, well…thanks." His words were weak but his tone unmistakably sincere. Hastily clearing his throat, he added, "But I think I'll manage."

" 'Course you will," said Riley. He neatly slid two fried eggs onto a plate and placed it in front of Finnick, who picked up his fork. Rather than eat, however, Finnick looked Riley squarely in the eyes.

"Annie's not going in the Hunger Games."

Riley meditatively rested his elbows on the counter. "I hope so, lad. But what if they pull her name?"

"Then we're getting someone else to volunteer for her." Finnick's tone brooked no denial.

"That might be a problem," said Riley softly. "You remember who the other two female victors are…"

"Aoife and Mags," groaned Finnick, dropping his head into his hands. "Oh, sh-t."

"Could you do that?" asked Riley, even more softly. "Could you ask something like this of Mags? You'd be sending her to her death as surely as if you shot her."

"I don't know," said Finnick hoarsely. "I don't know what I would or wouldn't do for Annie anymore." He raised his head, expression desperate. "Maybe I could persuade Aoife…"

"You'd be wasting your time, lad," said Riley, tone gentle. "You know she won't have anything to do with the Hunger Games anymore."

"Well, I have to try, don't I?" said Finnick, his eyes burning. "I've _got_ to try."

Riley looked sad. "I know," he said. "I just don't want you relying on false hopes, that's all. It's – " he hesitated, then continued, "it's a horrible thing when something you've counted on comes crashing down around you."

He was talking about Gaila, Finnick knew. Sighing, he looked away. "But we've all got to count on something, haven't we?" he murmured.

"What?"

Finnick ignored his dad, hopping abruptly off the stool and heading towards the door. "Where are you going?" called Riley.

"Finding Aoife," Finnick shot over his shoulder. "Dammit, Dad, I'm not giving up without a fight."

* * *

It wasn't easy finding someone in a city, especially if they didn't want to be found. Aoife wasn't picking up her phone, so Finnick had to physically search for her. He doubted he would have found her at all if he hadn't seen a distinctive mane of red hair disappearing around the corner of the pharmacist's shop.

"Hey – hey WAIT! Aoife!"

She paused long enough to let him catch up to her, behind the building. "What do you want, Finnick?" she asked coolly.

Finnick swallowed, intimidated a little, as always, by her. Though barely taller than Finnick, Aoife still managed to somehow look down on him. It wasn't for nothing she had been nicknamed "The Ice Queen" during her Hunger Games. Aoife's features could have been sculpted from a block of marble.

"I have a favor to ask," said Finnick steadily. _This is for Annie_, he reminded himself. _Think of Annie_.

Aoife merely folded her arms. Finnick took a deep breath and continued. "At the Reaping," he said. "If Annie's name is picked…I can't have her go back in the Games. It would destroy her completely."

For a moment, Aoife was silent. "What is that to me?" she said at last.

"If – if her name is picked…" Finnick looked straight into Aoife's eyes. They were the color of the sea in winter, and as unforgiving. "Would you be willing to volunt – "

"No." Aoife cut him off decisively, the faintest hint of steel touching the ice of her voice. "I will not."

"But – "

"I will not," she repeated, with more conviction. Then she drew herself up haughtily. "I will have nothing to do with the Games, that abomination," she said, and her voice could have frozen Hell itself. Certainly it chilled Finnick to the bones. "And if it is my name that is picked, I assure you I shall be dead long before I step into the arena."

It did not occur to Finnick to doubt her. Aoife was a chemist. Half the poisons in District Four came out of her laboratory.

Still, he had to try. "Couldn't you just – for Annie's sake – "

"No." The word came down between them like the steel blade of a guillotine, killing their conversation dead. Without waiting for a response from Finnick, Aoife swept away, the green silk of her long dress clinging to her erect, rigid figure. Finnick stared after, mouthing silent imprecations. _B-tch_, he thought. _Uncaring, unfeeling, ice-hearted b-tch…_

Finnick didn't want to talk to Mags about this. He couldn't. It was wrong, utterly wrong, for him to go to the old woman whom he regarded almost as family and ask her to willingly lay down her life. But something, some driving force compelled him to ignore the sick guilt in his stomach and turn his feet toward Mags' house.

She was sitting on her front porch, weaving, of course. Normally Finnick was inordinately fascinated with the way her wrinkled fingers, still white and slender, wove the laths or wet straws together. But today…

"Mornin' t' ya, Finnick," she called cheerily. "How does Annie be?"

"She's all right," said Finnick, managing a smile. He walked over, lowering his long frame onto one of the steps at her feet. Mags drew another reed out of the bowl of water and began adding it to the intricate pattern.

"Mags…" Finnick began to reluctantly voice his question. Better sooner than later.

She did not look at him, but remained concentrated on her work. Finnick tried again. "Mags, I – about the Hunger Games – "

With a small sigh, Mags lowered the basket onto her lap. Finnick looked up at her and was surprised to see a rueful little smile on her withered lips.

"Ah figured ya'd be askin' me this," she said. "Sooneh or lateh."

"I did go to Aoife first," muttered Finnick, ducking his head.

Mags' fingers, cool and dripping with water, slipped under Finnick's chin, raising his head. Astonished, he stared up at her. "You would – you would actually do this?" he said.

"Ah doon't know, lad," she said. "Ah suppose one could say, Ah doon't have many years left in me anyway…but then, wouldn't tha' make 'em all the more precious?"

"You don't have to," said Finnick. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

"Ah know Ah doon't," said Mags. "Do ya think tha' matters?"

"No," muttered Finnick. After a pause, he added, "Mags, I really do feel like a di – I feel rotten about this."

"Ah know tha' too," said Mags, with a smile. She returned to her weaving.

Finnick watched her nimble fingers plait the rushes for quite a while. He liked watching Mags weave. No pressure to fill the silences.

After a little while, however, he got up and went back to Annie.

* * *

"Annie, I – "

"Hush."

"But – "

"Not _now,_ Finnick…"

Annie bent her sun-warmed lips to Finnick's and kissed him. He responded fervently, of course, but there was something very important he had to tell her…

Pulling back, Annie looked down on him from where she lay on his chest. "You're not going to kiss me properly until you say whatever's bugging you, are you?"

Finnick grinned shamefacedly. She was right, of course. But then again, the moment was too perfect to ruin – the two of them, all alone, lying among the drying grasses and last wildflowers of the meadow, surrounded by the sweet, hay-like scent of sun-warmed grass.

"C'mon." Annie settled herself more comfortably on his chest, crossing her arms on his sternum and resting her chin on her arms. "What is it?"

Sighing, Finnick looked away, one of his hands tracing little patterns on the thin cotton fabric covering the small of her back. Annie tilted her head, resting her cheek on her arm instead. "Finnick?" Her voice was very quiet. "Is it about the – the you-know-what?"

"About the – goddammit, Annie, what else would it be?" he burst out in desperation, a sob catching in his voice. "It's eating up all we've got – "

Annie gently touched his face, her lips parted and her eyebrows pulled together in a worried frown. Finnick closed his eyes at her touch, holding her hand to his face and willing himself not to tear up. If he started crying, then Annie would, too – and he'd rather lose a gallon of blood than see her shed a single tear.

Calmer now, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "Okay, I have two things to say," he said. "The first one is that even if your name gets picked, you're not going to the Games. I talked to Mags the other day and she'll volunteer for you."

"She – she would do that?" Annie's eyes grew wide.

"Yes," said Finnick. "She as good as promised."

Annie closed her eyes, lips forming a silent prayer of thanks and her shoulders sagging in poignant relief. Finnick suddenly felt a little miffed. Shouldn't she have said something along the lines of, "Oh, Finnick, I don't care about me – I just want to know you'll be safe?"

Then he felt extremely guilty. The Hunger Games had changed her, deeply and permanently. She had every right to be selfish.

Annie opened her eyes, tears shining in them. "I must thank Mags," she whispered. "Such a sacrifice…"

"I know," said Finnick. His voice caught in his throat and he cleared it before speaking again. "Annie…the other thing I wanted to say…"

"What is it?" Annie sat up straighter, alerted by some subtle change in his voice.

Finnick took a deep breath. "I might get chosen for the games," he said. "It's a one in four chance."

"No…" Tears began to fill Annie's eyes again, and she backed away, shaking her head. "No, don't…"

Sitting up, Finnick reached for her. "Annie, Annie, it's a possibility," he said, voice transparent with pain. "You know that, darling. We have to be prepared."

Annie drew in a deep, shuddering breath, huge eyes fixed on Finnick. "Please," she whispered. "Please don't."

"Annie…" It felt like his heart was breaking.

And then she scrambled forward, straight into his arms, with Finnick cradling her as tightly as he dared. "Don't die," she sobbed into his chest. "Don't. I can't _be_ without you – "

"No – " Finnick pulled back a little and Annie, startled, looked up into his eyes. "No, Annie – that's exactly what I don't want. Don't you see? If something happens, you have to be strong." A sob caught in Finnick's throat, but he forced it down. "You can't – give up. You have to keep going. You have to stay strong for me."

"But what's the point?" whispered Annie desperately.

"The point?" Finnick's voice broke. "The point, Annie, is that if something happens – if you die – " his voice started to shake uncontrollably " – then the world will have lost something beautiful and rare and infinitely precious. You can't just live for me – there are others – Ciara, Riley – "

Finnick couldn't continue. The tears that came so easily were stinging in his eyes, and the tightness in his chest threatened to choke him. He tried to draw in a deep breath, to steady himself, but the exhale became a shuddering sob.

And then Annie, who had been gazing at him with wide eyes, did something totally unexpected. She reached up and, with a newfound tenderness and maturity, laid her hand against his cheek in a comforting gesture.

"Annie…" Finnick whispered her name, unable to say more. Shaking her head slightly, she brushed his cheek with her palm, smoothing away the wetness of his tears with her gossamer touch.

"Don't," she crooned softly. "It's not your part…"

Finnick laughed shakily. "But it's yours? Mermaid…"

Annie looked up at him steadily, her aquamarine eyes as clear as sea-glass. "I promise."

"What?"

"I promise to stay strong and not give up if something happens…that's what you wanted, right?"

Finnick hastily found his voice. "Yes – yes, it is."

"I mean it, Finnick." Her voice trembled.

"I – I know. Thank you, Annie."

They sat in silence for a while, Finnick's arms wrapped around Annie, her head and hands resting gently on his chest. The fragrant scent of the meadow flowers and grasses rose around them; the sun shone on Finnick's bronze hair and Annie's shell-like skin. Eventually, Annie spoke.

"Is that all you wanted to say?" she asked.

Finnick nodded, touching his lips to her perfumed hair. "Yes. Why?"

Annie looked up at him, wistfully, playfully. "Now will you kiss me?"

Finnick did, willingly, his hands twisting in the long luxurious skein of her hair, treasuring every second his lips touched hers, every moment her skin brushed his. They stayed until the sun set, watching the glorious conflagration of colours in the sky, Annie leaning against Finnick as his fingers trailed up and down her arm and he rested his cheek against her hair. And when the air grew cold and the sky dark and she fell asleep, Finnick took her in his arms and carried her home.

* * *

Several nights later, Finnick was awakened by something warm and sweet and silky slipping into his bed.

"What the – ?" Groggily, he forced his eyes opened and found Annie was lying next to him.

"I couldn't sleep," she explained, her eyes reflecting the moonlight that filtered in through his curtains. "Will you tell me a story?"

"Not – not now," groaned Finnick. "Mermaid, I'm tired…" He slumped back down on the pillows, it being too much of an effort to hold up his head.

Annie, who by contrast seemed wide awake, propped herself up on one elbow. "Shall I tell _you_ a story?"

"Sure," mumbled Finnick. His eyelids were so heavy…

Annie pulled herself closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her cheek against his collarbone. "Once upon a time…" Her breath tickled his ear, sending him farther into dreamworld. "Once upon a time, there was a man, and it was foretold that his daughter would be so beautiful that she would send countless men to their death…"

His eyelids were so heavy…so…very…heavy…

The Reaping was tomorrow.

* * *

Finnick woke in the early, early, morning, suddenly cold. Annie was curled into a ball, but had somehow managed to wrap all the covers around her, and the morning air was chill on his bare torso. For a second, Finnick lay still, pulling his mind out of the nebulous otherworld of dreams. As he came back to reality, another chill that had nothing whatsoever to do with the weather crept up his spine.

Today was the Reaping. In some hours – twelve, maybe? – his and Annie's fates would be decided. No, not Annie's. Hers was set. She wasn't going back. But he might…and Mags…

Unable to lie still, Finnick rolled out of bed and pulled on the first clothes that came to hand – skinny jeans, a plaid button-down shirt (which he didn't bother to button). Before leaving, he paused to tuck the blankets more securely around Annie and smooth her hair. _Sleep now, mermaid, _ he thought, heart aching. _It's the quiet before the storm._

Beat-up tennis shoes dangling by their laces from his hand, Finnick padded out of the room. The house was still, quiet…almost. Riley's snores drifted downstairs from his room. Finnick, seated on the doormat as he laced his sneakers, smirked. He still felt cold, though…

Shoes on, he slid open the glass door and took off at a light jog, feet pounding the trail at the edge of the bluff. The noise of the sea, such a constant that he usually forgot it was there, intruded on his consciousness as a relentless pulse. The light was cold, grayish-blue…the victors' houses shining dim white through the haze of fog. Everything else was simply shapes, patterns of gray and black and blue.

Finnick slowed to a walk when the last of the houses had disappeared into the mist and he was surrounded only by the cliffs and ocean and the grasses and flowers that grew up on this promontory. A chill breeze wafted past him, and he shivered. All his senses were dimmed, eyes and ears muffled by the fog, his hands and face numbed by chill, his thoughts empty. Only the briny smell of the sea really registered, clear and sharp.

And then, out of the mist…a dark shrouded figure. Finnick burst into a cold sweat, sure for one heart-stopping moment that this was Death himself, come to lay his icy mark on him. But then he realized that it was Ciara, a black hood pulled over her hair.

"Finnick?" Her voice, evenly modulated, held only the hint of a question.

"Ciara." Finnick ducked his head uncertainly, but he knew why she was here. It was the same reason he was.

"Finnick, I have something to tell you," said Ciara. There was a command behind those smooth syllables. Her eyes, dark pools in the faint light, fastened on Finnick's face with an intensity that made him shiver.

"I know what you have done for Annie, and I am grateful," she said. "Do not think that I am not. But it is not enough – " and she took a step closer " – to ensure her safety alone. What do you think will happen to her if you die?"

"I – " Finnick stared at Ciara. "I made her promise…Annie promised me if I…if something happened, she would…stay strong."

Ciara made a small noise of disbelief, and Finnick's anger flared. "Do you doubt your own daughter?"

Her eyes narrowed, Ciara looked over the ocean. "I do not doubt her intent," she said evenly. "But whether she has the strength to carry it out is a different matter."

Suddenly, she fixed her gaze on Finnick again, and the intensity in her eyes was searing. "Listen to me, Finnick Odair," she said. "It is not enough to have kept Annie safe. If you go in the games, you must keep yourself also. Or else all your efforts will have been in vain. Do you understand me? I will not see my daughter destroyed because of you, and I ask that you come back _alive_, not for your sake, but for hers." She paused, then added again, "Do you understand?"

Finnick met her eyes evenly, hiding the icy chills that were running up and down his spine. "I understand."

* * *

Cut to the Reaping.

There they were, all gathered in the district square under the hot morning sun. And Peacekeepers. Peacekeepers everywhere. The usual stage had been set up in the middle of the square, but someone had had the brilliant idea of setting up special seats for all the previous victors right next to it. As if they needed extra attention.

Annie was seated in between Finnick and Mags. She was pale and trembling, her face hidden against his shoulder, and refused to let go of his arm. Finnick leaned his head against hers and stared out into space, seeing nothing. A camera man came up close, capturing their faces and broadcasting them for the world to see. Four men and three women, all pale, still, responding to neither the crowd nor each other. Aoife, Mags, Annie…Finnick. Connor. Fergus. Logan.

The people parted, making way for "the Reapers": Mayor Danan, somber and uncomfortable in his ill-fitting suit; Jeremy Hague, the man who always picked the tributes, his golden curls slicked back; and the two young women who carried the possible tributes' names, their tight-fitting, shimmering silver dresses slit to the thigh.

_Please_, prayed Finnick, his eyes closed. _If there's a God…not Annie and me…I don't care about me, just don't do anything to hurt her. She's been through enough already._

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Jeremy, then stopped and cleared his throat. He was lacking his usual ebullience. _Why's that?_ thought Finnick savagely. _Didn't care that a bunch of kids were being murdered, did you? But now your sad because your favorite celebrities might be hacked to pieces?_

"Ladies and gentlemen," began Jeremy again. "The Reaping for the 75th Hunger Games." One of the silver-clad women stepped forward, holding the crystal bowl that contained only a few scraps of paper. Jeremy extended a shaking hand and picked up one. Finnick couldn't see him directly. But there was a huge screen up on the Justice Building, displaying everything in live time, and it was facing Finnick directly.

"The male tribute," said Jeremy. _Dear God, please, please, please…_ "The male tribute is – is Finnick Odair."

"NO!" Annie's horrified scream rent the air and she clung to Finnick, sobbing, crying, pleading, but he was unable to offer any comfort. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. All life, all feeling seemed to have been struck out of him and he sat there, dumb, motionless. Only when the rough gloved hands of the Peacekeepers jerked him to his feet and tried to pull Annie off of him did he come to life.

"No – no, Annie, don't worry – " he said mechanically. Her hysterics, her crying, hurt him so deeply he barely felt it. It was beyond pain. It was – numbing.

"Get on the stage," snapped the Peacekeeper who held Finnick's arm in an iron grip. Another was prying Annie's fingers loose, none to gently.

"Don't hurt her," snapped Finnick, real anger beginning to boil in his stomach. Sensation was coming back to him, and with it, emotion and thought. "Get your hands the f—k off of her!"

The crowd was watching, enthralled, both fascinated and repelled. Smirking, the Peacekeeper who had held Annie released her, backing away with his hands upraised. The other one still maintained a firm grip on Finnick's arm.

"Annie – " She was clinging to him, shaking, sobbing, her face buried against his shirt and her arms locked around his waist. Finnick brought his hands to her shoulders. "Darling – remember what you promised – what you said to me – "

Annie's arms tightened around him for one second longer. Then they loosened, slipped away, and she all but fell back into her seat. As the Peacekeeper marched Finnick up onto the stage, she bent her head to her knees and let out a long, high wail of pain.

Finnick's knees nearly buckled as he stepped up onto the platform, but he held himself up. Jerking his chin up, trying to hide the tears in his eyes, he searched the crowd for Riley. Riley was…where was Riley? Finnick's heart, already hammering, began to pound even harder. He had to see his dad, had to find his face one last time –

"The female tribute." Now Jeremy's voice was shaking, as well as his hands. It barely carried over Annie's continued cries. The other young woman stepped forward, and Finnick saw that tears streaked her cheeks. Jeremy reached into the bowl and drew out a folded piece of paper, but didn't seem to want to open it. Instead, he simply stared at the white scrap that quivered violently in his trembling hands. Nervously, Jeremy licked his dry lips. It took him two tries to open the paper.

_Please. Not Annie. Not –_

"Annie Cresta."

She screamed again, this time in abject terror. Dazed again – like his brain couldn't take any more – Finnick watched as Ciara burst out of the crowd, trying to hold Annie, trying to comfort her. There was a low, angry murmur coming from the crowd, and it was on Annie's behalf. A useless murmur.

And then Mags hauled herself to her feet, leaning heavily on her walking stick like she had aged twenty years in the past five minutes. Slowly, painfully, she made her way onto the stage to stand beside Finnick. Her face could have been a death mask.

Slowly, painfully, Finnick began to take it in. Annie wasn't going in the Games. She was safe. And for one second, sweet, sweet relief swamped Finnick. But cold reality wasn't far behind.

He was going back to the Games.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes for the 75th Hunger Games," announced Jeremy, who had regained some control over his voice. But there was no cheering, not even a pretense. Many among the crowd were openly weeping.

Finnick finally found Riley. He was standing far back, as if the many rows of people could somehow dilute the pain. Tears were slowly trickling down his face and into his coppery beard. But when Finnick met his eyes, he slowly squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. Then he saluted Finnick.

Finnick nearly started crying himself. But he swallowed the lump in his throat, straightened his shoulders, and returned the salute. That was all the goodbye he would get. He knew full well it might be their last exchange ever. The knowledge threatened to crush him, to send him to his knees right then and there, but Finnick ruthlessly suppressed it. Later – later he would go to pieces. But not now.

"All right, let's go." The Peacekeeper – who still held his arm – yanked on it and escorted him back off the platform. Finnick followed unresistingly.

Until they passed the bench where the other victors sat.

And Finnick _didn't care_. He didn't care he was on national television, didn't care the world could see, didn't care a Peacekeeper stood with a loaded gun and brass knuckles two feet from him. He tore his arm out of the man's grasp and went straight for Annie. In another second she was in his arms, crying again – they were both crying, holding each other tighter, tighter –

_Don't let go!_ Finnick's body screamed at him. _Don't let go! Don't! Don't!_

_I know,_ he thought desperately. _I won't!_ And he didn't', not when the Peacekeepers grabbed his and Annie's arms and began to try to pull them apart. He only held on tighter, burying his face in her hair, feeling her arms lock around him and her hands clutch at him. _Don't let go – don't – don't – _

But the might of the Capitol was stronger than them. More than one set of gloved hands grabbed at Finnick, wrenching him and Annie apart. Unpitying, unfeeling, they dragged him through the crowd and out of the square, while Annie screamed and cried, captive like a pinned butterfly. All too soon her face was lost – gone.

And in all likelihood, he would never see her again.


	2. Rising Storm

There was a soft tap on the door of his compartment on the train. "Finnick?" Mags' voice registered in his ears. "Finnick, donncha want dinneh?"

"I'm not hungry." In a way, it was true. His stomach was rumbling as he sat on his bed, looking at nothing, but he couldn't eat. The thought of food was repulsive.

"Finnick, ya have t' eat." Mags' voice was soft, persuasive, motherly. Finnick ignored it. "There's no good starvin' yourself…"

He did not respond. After a while, when Mags had still said nothing, Finnick assumed she had left. He didn't spend much thought on her.

Instead, he thought about Patrick Daily.

Patrick was a previous victor, who had won his games some ten years before Finnick was born. During his games, he had lost an eye. The Capitol had replaced it for him, of course – gave him a new, working eye. But a couple of days after his games, Patrick had called everyone to the district square. He had stood on the stage and, right in front of everyone, gouged out the eye the Capitol had given him and trodden on it. It had been a supreme gesture of defiance.

No one had seen him since then.

* * *

There was a switch in Finnick's brain. It helped him differentiate between the real him and the façade he put on while at the Capitol. When the switch was on, he was smooth, sarcastic, nonchalant. When it was off, he was friendly, happy, passionate. Capitol Finnick. Real Finnick. On. Off. On. Off. On off on off –

ON.

Finnick strolled into the Remake Center, eyeing the other victors, casting critical eyes over their costumes. The usual ridiculous getups, of course. Was that Johanna Mason in the tree outfit? Hah.

Although, thought Finnick ruefully, looking down at his own "costume," he hardly had the right to criticize. But then, he'd been too much in shock to protest it. As any one would be. Expecting to be greeted by his stylist Caius and being greeted instead by his stylist Cai_a_ had been interesting, to say the least.

And, hell, Finnick didn't really mind being almost naked. Even if practically the entire country was watching him.

He held a handful of sugar cubes for the horses. Still casual, he walked over to his chariot, raising a hand in greeting when Brutus hailed him. Mags was sitting in the chariot, apparently lost in thought. Thankfully, her stylist hadn't mimicked Finnick's outfit for her. Mags wore some sort of wrap dress of a shimmery gold fabric, with pearls looped through her thinning hair.

"Thinking, Mags?" said Finnick. He offered some of the sugar to the near horse, who lipped it up.

Mags smiled ruefully. "Ah've seen all of these," she said. "All these victors. Ah've seen every one of their games."

"Huh." Finnick absentmindedly stroked the soft gray neck of the horse. He'd never considered that. Mags was by far the oldest victor here. Hell, she was older than the games themselves…

"Mags," said Finnick slowly, "what was life like before the Hunger Games? Before the rebellion?"

Her chin propped on her hands, Mags stared out in front of her. "Ah doon't remembeh," she said at last.

Finnick stared at her, suddenly full of pity. Then he turned his gaze back to the other victors, sizing them up. The majority of them were in their thirties to early sixties and looked comparatively fit. The youngest would easily be Katniss and Peeta.

Katniss was interesting. She was a b-tch, like practically every other female victor, but in the I'm-just-looking-out-for-myself way, as opposed to the I-want-to-inflict-pain-and-misery way.

Speak of the devil.

A young female victor had just walked in, and Finnick was pretty damn sure it was Katniss. It was hard to tell, though, underneath all that warpaint. Then again, who but Cinna would come up with an outfit like that? Something so deceptively simple now, it had to be absolutely showstopping at some point.

Popping a sugar cube in his mouth, he strolled over to where Katniss stood petting one of the jet-black horses. He managed to get right behind her before she realized he was there and turned around, her eyes widening in surprise. Tossing in another sugar cube, he leaned against the horse.

"Hello, Katniss," he said. Casually.

"Hello, Finnick," she returned. Finnick saw her eyes flick up and down his body, and he suppressed a smirk.

"Want a sugar cube?" he said, extending his hand. "They're supposed to be for the horses, but who cares? They've got years to eat sugar, whereas you and I…well, if we see something sweet, we better grab it quick."

"No, thanks," said Katniss. Apparently it made her uncomfortable to look him in the eyes, because she was speaking to the sugar cubes. "I'd love to borrow your outfit sometime, though."

Maybe the reason she was having a hard time looking at his face was because the rest of him was so distracting. Finnick decided to tease her in turn.

"You're absolutely terrifying me in that getup. What happened to the pretty little-girl dresses?"

"I outgrew them," she said.

_No sh-t._ "It's too bad about this Quell thing," he said, fingering her collar. What _was_ this? Cinna must be a freakin' genius. "You could have made out like a bandit in the Capitol. Jewels, money, anything you wanted."

"I don't like jewels, and I have more money than I need." _Good, that had pissed her off like he thought it would._ "What do you spend all yours on, anyway, Finnick?"

_Presents for Annie._ "Oh, I haven't dealt in anything as common as money for years."

"Then how do they pay you for the pleasure of your company?"

Sudden anger and disgust burst into life in Finnick's stomach. Who the _hell_ was Katniss to judge? She as good as called him a whore! Didn't she realize the Capitol had f—ked up his life just like they f—ked up hers?

"With secrets," he said in a low voice, hiding his anger. Then, to further discomfort Katniss, he brought his face close to hers. "What about you, girl on fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?"

Katniss blushed underneath her makeup. So she _did_ have secrets. "No, I'm an open book," she whispered. "Everybody seems to know my secrets before I know them myself."

_Yeah, right. Unless…_Finnick's mind went to the Victory Tour, to the Capitol. Could she be talking about Snow? The sonofab-tch certainly knew enough of Finnick's secrets.

"Unfortunately, I think that's true." Behind Katniss, the doors opened again and Finnick saw Peeta march in in a matching unitard. "Peeta is coming. Sorry you have to cancel your wedding. I know how devastating that must be for you." He ate another sugar cube and left before Katniss could work out the sarcasm in his comment.

Katniss wasn't in love with Peeta. Finnick could tell. Were they close? Yes. Did she depend on him? Yes. But Finnick figured she loved Peeta about as much as Finnick loved, say, Aurelia.

Finnick returned to his chariot, aware that Katniss and Peeta were talking with their heads together. Were they discussing him? Probably.

"You'd better get ready," he said to Mags. "We should be starting any minute now." He helped her into the chariot before swinging himself in.

As the music began and the procession of chariots rolled out, Finnick put on his charade, grinning and waving to the crowd. It was…surprisingly easy. And Finnick realized – or perhaps remembered – that he _liked_ attention. Being a celebrity was natural for him. Maybe that was why the crowds loved him. During President Snow's speech, though, he had to work hard to keep the corrosive hatred in his guts from spilling over onto his face. To distract himself, he looked at Katniss and Peeta's costumes for the first time.

Holy sh-t.

Cinna had outdone himself.

Their unitards and crowns were glowing with an ever-changing play of colours – orange, red, and deep gold – that looked so realistic Finnick found it hard to believe the outfit itself wasn't smoldering. Forget last year's flames. This was incredible.

Then the anthem played – God, Finnick was sick of that song – and they did one more lap before returning to the Training Center.

Mags sighed as Finnick helped her off the chariot. "Ah feel ridiculous."

"Why?"

"Everyone's so much youngeh than me. Can ya imagine me wearin' one o' those fiery suits? It'd be horrible…"

"Ah, Mags, don't say that…" They started walking back, Mags's arm linked through his. Up ahead, Finnick saw an older male victor – from Eleven by the look of it – grab Katniss and kiss her. Finnick's snort of laughter made Mags look up at him questioningly, but he shrugged and she let it go.

As they stood, waiting for an elevator, Brutus strolled over to them. "Hey, Finnick."

"Brutus." Finnick greeted him with a firm handshake and a nod. "How've you been?"

"Not bad." Brutus looked around with obvious satisfaction, stretching his arms. "Man, it feels good to be back here."

On seeing Finnick's incredulous look, he laughed. "I mean it. I'm excited."

"You must be pretty sure of winning, then," said Finnick.

Brutus shrugged and grinned. "You only die once." Then his tone changed to one of friendly inquiry. "Hey, who's your mentor this year?"

"Connor Burns."

"Connor…" Brutus bent his head, musing. "Connor…which games was he?"

"57th, I think." Up ahead of them, Johanna, who was talking to Katniss and Peeta, had stripped off her costume. Finnick laughed at Katniss's obvious embarrassment.

"What is it?" Puzzled, Brutus craned his head to see what Finnick was laughing at.

"Mason's giving the District 12 victors a little show."

Brutus snickered. But as his eyes found Katniss, his forehead drew together. "Look, Finnick," he said, lowering his voice, "what do you think? About them and all the – you know."

"Yeah, I know," said Finnick quietly. "I think – "

What _did _he think?

"I think something is about to change," he said. "And it better be soon."

* * *

Go to Training – check.

Chat to Brutus, Cashmere, and Gloss and start sketching out a possible alliance – check.

Mess with Katniss – check.

Except while tying knots with her, he somehow ended up making a noose. To cover how much that unsettled him, he playfully pretended to hang himself, wondering what her reaction would be. She simply rolled her eyes and left. Finnick dropped the noose, troubled. Was he really that morbid?

Morose now, he wandered over to where Mags stood at the archery station. Aimlessly, he strung a bow and began firing at one of the targets. Most of his shots went wide, but he didn't really care. Archery had never been his strong point, anyway.

"So what's the plan?" he said to Mags. "You going to stick with me, or what?"

"Ah doon't know." She looked troubled. "How much would Ah hindeh ya?"

"What? No, Mags, don't think about that…"

"Finnick, Ah'm not gonna get outta this alive," she said. "Ah know that. Mah priority is keepin' ya safe. And if tha' means getting' outta your way, so be it."

"Mags…" Finnick stared at her, pity welling up inside him again. "You don't have to…"

"Ah've already resigned meself to die," she said firmly. "Don't try t' change mah mind." And she sent an arrow speeding straight to the center of the farthest target.

"Nice shot."

It was all Finnick could think to say.

* * *

Late in the second day of training, when Finnick and Mags were heading back to their rooms, they were waylaid by Connor and Katniss and Peeta's mentor, whose name Finnick couldn't remember for the life of him. In fact, the only thing he _could _remember about him was that he was a steady boozer.

"Hey," said Connor. He was a stocky man of medium height, whose black hair was already graying at the temples. Right now he looked like the boozer had given him something hard to think about.

"Hey," said Finnick, slowing to a stop. "What's up?"

Connor glanced at the boozer, who gave a nod. It was a very odd gesture. Like he was giving Connor permission.

"Finnick – Mags," said Connor. "Could you come with us?"

Nonplussed, Finnick nodded. He and Mags followed Connor and the boozer down one of the hallways until they reached a large closet, into which he was unceremoniously stuffed.

"Hey! What the – "

"Shut up," growled the boozer, pulling Mags in with only slightly more courtesy. Connor squeezed in and shut the door. Only a chink of light illuminated the four of them.

"What the hell?" demanded Finnick.

"It's not bugged in here," snapped the boozer. "Or do you want the Capitol listening in on our plans?"

"Ah doon't understand," said Mags. "What are ya plannin'?"

The boozer frowned at her. Apparently her accent, already thick in Finnick's ears, was undecipherable to him. "What's she saying?"

"Mags wants to know what you're planning."

"All right then." The boozer shrugged. "Anyway, Connor says I can trust you two, which I find hard to believe, especially since Four is a traditional career district. And even if I do decide to trust you – which is unlikely – it doesn't mean I'll like working with you."

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual," said Finnick. "What do _you_ want? Why should any of us – including Connor – trust _you_?"

"Because that's the only way we'll bring down the Capitol."

Five seconds' ringing silence followed this. Then Mags drew in a long, hissing breath.

"_What_?" said Finnick. "Bring down the Capitol? Are you out of your f—king mind?"

"You're not the first to say that," said the boozer dryly. "But no, I don't think I am. The time is perfect. We've got districts full of pent-up anger, people desperate enough to do anything, and the perfect young couple to lead them. It couldn't be better."

"Tell me this honestly," said Mags. "Do ya think ya have a chance o' winnin'?"

"_What?_"

"Do we have a snowball's chance in hell of winning?" snapped Finnick. "And I don't mean in your idealistic, revolutionary dreams. In _real, practical terms_, can you guys get out of this without getting your heads blown off?"

The boozer looked oddly smug. "Yes," he said. "We do. I won't explain why, but we can."

Finnick started to laugh. "You're crazy," he said. "You're batsh-t crazy! You seriously think…" He stopped, shook his head, and laughed again. "You guys can go ahead and get yourselves blown up if you want. I'll stay on the sidelines and watch."

"You know," said the boozer – carefully, but with a hint of sarcasm – "for a guy who was forced into prostitution by the Capitol and is in love with a girl who's gone crazy because of the Hunger Games, you'd think you'd be a bit more proactive."

Finnick went very, very still. Mags laid a restraining hand on his arm, and Connor muttered, "Haymitch, that wasn't wise…"

The boozer smirked.

Closing his eyes, Finnick took a deep breath through his nose. "Look," he said through clenched teeth, "that same girl is the reason I'm not taking part in this rebellion of yours. If the Capitol catches me, what do you think they'll do to her?"

"You're assuming they'll win," said the boozer.

"I'm trying to protect Annie!" shouted Finnick, glaring at him. "And yes, I'm assuming they'll win, because if you haven't noticed, they're the ones with the damn nuclear weapons!"

"Fine," snapped the boozer. "I'm done trying to persuade you." He opened the closet door with a jerk and strode down the hallway. Soon they could no longer hear the clumping of his boots.

"He's mad," muttered Finnick, stepping out after him. "He's completely out of his mind."

"I don't think so," said Connor quietly. "I think there's more to this…and I think it started long before the Quell."

Finnick and Mags both stared at him. "Are ya sayin' ya believe him?" asked Mags.

Connor hesitated. "I think I do."

"Would ya side with him? Rebel?"

He looked torn. "I don't know…I have children, and more than anything I want to keep them safe…but how safe can they be in a world where the Hunger Games exists?"

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," muttered Finnick. He started walking down the hallway, his shoes making angry slapping noises against the tiled floor. Like everything else, it was spotlessly clean. Damn the Capitol. Damn everyone.

* * *

But the idea of revolution had taken hold of Finnick like a poisonous weed. He couldn't sleep that night for constantly thinking it over; the next day, he was abstracted during all of training. It wasn't until lunch that he put the matter out of his mind and started paying attention to the other tributes.

It wasn't that Finnick wanted the Capitol in power; far from it. But he valued his and Annie's safety far too much to upset the precarious balance of their lives.

"Private sessions today, eh?" said Brutus jovially as they all sat down at the communal table. "What are you gonna do, Finnick?"

Finnick, who was getting food from one of the carts, shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "To be honest, I never really thought about."

"Now might be a good time to start," suggested Cashmere mildly. The other tributes laughed.

"Hey, girl on fire." Finnick picked up an apple from the cart and lobbed it at her. Though startled, Katniss managed to catch it, sitting down with a murmured word of thanks. Peeta sat next to her, of course, but Finnick slid smoothly into the seat on her other side.

"The problem this year," Johanna was saying, "is coming up with something new. We have to give the Gamemakers something they've never seen before."

"What do you suggest?" said Cecilia. "Strip? I'll bet they haven't seen that one." A ripple of laughter at her comment went around the table.

"True." Finnick looked up from his plate, eyes flashing with humor as he saw a chance to tease Johanna. "But in Johanna's case, it would hardly be exposing anything any of us hadn't seen before. In fact, if you wanted to shock the Gamemakers, you'd probably be better off keeping your clothes_ on_."

The other tributes roared with laughter, but Johanna's lips tightened and spots of angry color appeared on her cheeks. "How is that different from you?" she snapped. "At least I'm not the one prancing around on national television wearing nothing but a golden fishnet."

Finnick could have been needled at her comment, but he chose to stay smooth and sarcastic. "Come, come, Johanna. That was hardly my decision. I think Caia designs those costumes as much for her own gratification as the audience's."

"Ah think Ah'll just take a nap," said Mags, trying to alleviate the hostility that still radiated from Johanna. "Not much point in me doin' anythin' else."

Finnick doubted if half the tributes could understand her, but they chuckled appreciatively as much at her breaking the tension as the actual humor in her statement.

"What about you, girl on fire?" said Chaff. "What do you plan to do?"

She looked startled at the comment. "Oh – I don't know," she said. "Shoot some arrows, I guess. Haymitch said to surprise the Gamemakers if we could, but I'm fresh out of ideas."

"Want some of mine?" said Enobaria. The light gleamed on her golden teeth as she grinned. "I've got plenty."

"No, thanks," said Katniss. Her shudder was so slight Finnick doubted even Katniss realized it.

The other tributes resumed their conversation, joking about the upcoming private sessions, but Finnick watched Katniss and Peeta with their mentor's words running through his head. There was no doubt the public was absolutely in love with them. But would it be enough to fuel a rebellion? Finnick doubted it. The affections of the Capitol people were fickle things.

The Districts were another matter. Finnick didn't need the boozer to tell him of the huge store of pent-up anger and grief in them. Fear kept those feelings under lock, but given a purpose and a figurehead to rally under, who knew? The Districts could very well have it in them to bring down the Capitol.

Except…Finnick realized that all his visions of the rebellion, victorious or not, ended in destruction and death, bombs and bloodshed. Either the Districts rebelled and the Capitol razed them to the ground, or the Districts and the Capitol blew each other to pieces.

"Gloss Scipio?" called an aide. "The Gamemakers are ready for you."

Grinning, Gloss stood, brushing his golden hair out of his eyes. "Wish me luck," he said, and added, "I'm not sure my singing voice will hold up."

In Finnick's mind, it was a poor attempt at humor, and he ignored it. _What do I want?_ he thought, chin propped on his hand. _I want…_He sighed, closing his eyes, and began logically order his thoughts. _I want a world where Annie and I can live together safely. That is…all I care about, really. I don't give a sh-t about which group's in power as I know that they won't bother us. _

But the Capitol _was_ bothering them. It wouldn't let him be with Annie, forcing him to take these extended trips, keeping them apart. It wouldn't let them marry. And if they did marry and had children, those children would live under the Hunger Games's shadow.

And yet…the risk of rebellion was certain. The benefits were unclear and certainly less likely.

_I don't want to kill people_, Finnick realized. _I don't. That's what really bothers me about this. It's that win or lose, hundreds, thousands of people will die. And that's not something I want to be a part of. _

He didn't come out of his brown study until the aide called his name to appear before the Gamemakers. Sighing, Finnick walked into the room. The Gamemakers were all seated at a table, chatting with each other, but as he entered their attention shifted to him.

"Well, well, Mr. Odair," trilled a female Gamemaker, whose long corkscrew curls were a vibrant shade of candy-floss pink. "So nice to see you!"

Finnick replied with a bland nod and smile, walking over to the rack of weapons. There was a splendid trident there – possibly especially for him – but the balance felt wrong when he hefted it in his hands. He picked up a spear instead.

"How goes your training?" asked a man. Finnick turned and saw the speaker was Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker.

"Well enough," answered Finnick politely. The spear felt more natural. He tossed it from one hand to the other, testing its weight.

"Have you had a chance to talk to Haymitch?"

_Haymitch? Who's –_

"The mentor of last year's victors," said Heavensbee, in response to Finnick's blank look. He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly, like he wanted to convey an important point. "I find he has some very sage advice."

_The boozer? Advice? What the –_

And it clicked.

So Heavensbee was in on this rebellion thing too, eh? Finnick carefully kept his face blank as he fingered the shaft of the spear. "I've heard his advice, sir," he said. "Though I'm not sure I'll follow it."

"Of course." Was Finnick imagining it, or did Heavensbee look disappointed? He leaned back in his chair, and Finnick understood the double conversation was over. "He is, after all, the mentor of two of your opponents."

"Precisely." Finnick stepped into the center of the room.

"Well, Mr. Odair?" sang Candy-Floss. "What do you have to show us?"

Deliberating, Finnick shifted his grip on the spear. Then, with a sudden movement, he flung it straight up so it drove into the ceiling and hung there, quivering. The Gamemakers gasped.

"Not sure," said Finnick. "Something new."

* * *

Finnick left the shower, clad only in jeans and toweling his hair dry, to find everyone else watching the television for the results of their private sessions. Mags was seated on the couch, hands folded; Connor stood behind her, leaning on its back; and Dalia Burns, their publicity director, stood next to Connor, her dark hair smoothed into a professional twist.

"Any scores yet?" Finnick plopped down next to Mags.

"No, they're just starting," said Dalia. "Look."

Finnick focused his attention on the TV. Anthem again. Gloss – ten. Cashmere – nine. Brutus – ten. Etc., etc. Finnick's score came up as an eleven. Connor high-fived him and Mags squeezed his knee affectionately. Her own score was a three.

"Ah well," said Mags good-naturedly, with a rueful smile. "Didn't expect much else."

None of the other scores were any higher than a seven, and Finnick was feeling reasonably confident about his chances. And then – Peeta came up.

Twelve.

"_Twelve_?" said Finnick. "What the bloody – ?"

Katniss – twelve.

Astounded, Finnick looked at the faces of his companions. Mags was shocked. Connor looked slightly dazed. Dalia had her eyes narrowed at the screen.

"What did they _do?_" whispered Connor.

"Whatever it was, it sure pissed off the Gamemakers," said Finnick.

Three pair of eyes turned to him in confusion.

"Oh, come on," said Finnick. "You can't honestly believe they _earned_ those scores!"

"It's possible…"

"No, Connor, it isn't. _No one_ gets a twelve, no one, not even Julius from the 43rd Games, and he was arguably the greatest tribute there ever was. The Gamemakers aren't rewarding them for their skills." He paused to let his words sink in. "They're painting a target on their foreheads."

Mags buried her face in her hands. Dalia tapped her polished nails on her clipboard, creating a sharp staccato rhythm. "That could be," she said. "But I still don't see the motive. Why target them?"

"Think, Dalia," said Finnick. "Think about what they did last year. Think about what's been happening since then."

Her brow furrowed. Then she laughed. "Finnick, you can't be serious! Those children, leaders of a – "

"I am serious," said Finnick quietly. He met Connor's eyes and they understood each other.

"No," said Dalia. "No, that's ridiculous! You can hardly expect me to believe – "

"But you've got to," said Connor. He stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her. "Dalia, darling, you must – "

Finnick quickly looked away from them, eyes smarting. God, he missed Annie. He missed her so much it hurt.

"But then what can we do?" Dalia's professional façade was cracking a little under this information, and she sounded almost frightened. Connor leaned his head on her shoulder.

"Do?" said Finnick. "Hell if I know. It's not our problem."

Connor flashed him a startled look, but Finnick silently mouthed, _The rooms are bugged._ Both Connor and Dalia got the message.

"Of course," said Dalia, with a brave attempt to hide the tremor in her voice. "District Four doesn't have anything to do with this." She slipped out of her husband's arms and turned the television off. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the others, but Mags had already gotten to her feet and hobbled out of the room, while Finnick and Connor were deep in silent conversation.

_What are you going to do?_ said Connor's eyes.

Finnick shrugged.

_Decide,_ mouthed Connor. _Soon._

Nodding, Finnick looked away. _Make a decision!_ his mind clamored at him. _You must choose! Can you allow the Capitol to rule, to kill innocent children every year?_

And somehow, that was when Finnick realized. Realized that the rebellion was about more than him, more than Annie, more than District Four or the Capitol or the Hunger Games. It was about humanity, about the future, and if he wasn't going to risk his life to for a better future then he was a pretty selfish bastard.

As Connor read the new determination in Finnick's eyes, his face whitened.

_Help me,_ mouthed Finnick. _Help us._

Connor drew back, his eyes flicking to Dalia. Then he swallowed, and nodded.

_Thanks.

* * *

_

"Evening, Finnick," said Caesar Flickerman. "As good looking as ever, I see."

"You too, Caesar," returned Finnick, his voice hitting just the right note of familiarity. Half the girls in the audience were screaming; he turned his head and casually winked. Playing the crowd.

The outfit certainly helped, too. All Finnick was wearing was metallic bluish-silver pants of some fabric that fit so snugly it barely left anything to the imagination. His arms and shoulders were temporarily tattooed with a swirling pattern in silver, his eyes lined with bright silver, and his bronze hair streaked with various shades of gold and copper that gleamed with a fiery intensity under the lights. It felt a little ridiculous, but one look at the crowd told Finnick the costume was doing a damn good job.

"And you're just as popular, if not more so!" said Flickerman jovially.

"Yes," answered Finnick, letting a little feeling creep into his voice. "There are so many in this Capitol – "

"I love you, Finnick!" a girl hysterically screamed over the noise of the crowd. Unable to pick her out, he waved in her general direction and saw a girl of about fourteen faint, apparently overcome with emotion.

Flickerman opened his mouth to speak, but Finnick forestalled him, saying, "If you don't mind, Caesar, I have something I'd like to say?"

Though he looked a little startled, Flickerman recovered his equanimity almost instantly. "Of course, Finnick," he said indulgently. "Anything you want."

"I wrote a poem," said Finnick, half to the audience and with the perfect tone of hesitancy that foretold the revealing of something intimate. From the waistband of his pants, he pulled a folded sheet of paper.

Yesterday, Finnick had met with Haymitch and Plutarch Heavensbee in a deserted storeroom. There, he had mostly listened and memorized as Haymitch told him of a plan, a fantastic plan that involved lightning and wires and a giant tree. And Katniss.

"We need Katniss," Haymitch had said. "She is the heart of this revolution, even if she doesn't know it. But she's sworn to keep Peeta alive, even at the cost of her own life. So your priority in the arena needs to be the both of them."

"Now hold on," said Finnick. "Before we go any further, I need to make something clear. You said Peeta is Katniss's priority. Well, Annie is _my_ priority. You know that the minute we blow the forcefield, all hell is going to break loose. And I'm betting the first thing the Capitol is going to do is go to all the districts and get as many hostages as possible. So if I'm going to go through with this, I'm going to need some sort of guarantee that the Capitol won't get its filthy hands on Annie."

Haymitch and Heavensbee looked at each other. "All right," said Haymitch. "I swear that we will do everyth – "

"No," said Finnick flatly, cutting him off. "I don't trust you." And he turned very deliberately to Heavensbee.

"Me?" said the overweight Gamemaker. "Why me?"

"Because he drinks and you don't," said Finnick. "Because he's desperate and you're not. Because Haymitch is a sorry son-of-a-b-tch who came out of the Hunger Games trusting no one and hating everyone, while you're just a big soft Capitol guy with a secret romantic streak." Both men looked surprised at these characterizations of themselves, though Haymitch also looked slightly smug.

"All right," said Heavensbee. "I promise I will keep Annie safe." Finnick searched his face until he was sure he meant it. Satisfied, he nodded.

Then the talk had turned to the more recent future – notably, the upcoming interviews. The plan was to get the crowd as much on the victors' side as possible.

"Shouldn't be hard for you," said Haymitch wryly. "Half the Capitol's in love with you anyway."

"So then, what should I do?" asked Finnick. He didn't feel like coming up with ideas.

Haymitch shrugged. "Be romantic. Spew a lot of mushy stuff about how your one true love is some woman in the Capitol of extraordinary beauty."

"A poem," said Finnick in a burst of inspiration. "Nothing's mushier than a poem."

"Exactly." Heavensbee clapped him on the shoulder. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Odair, you're not the only person we have to talk to."

"Sure." Finnick hesitated, then tipped them both salutes before leaving. As he was walking down the hallway, he passed Johanna Mason.

"So you're in on it too, then?" he said.

Johanna turned those big cow eyes of hers on him in a blank stare. "In on what?"

"Never mind." Either she was playing dumb for the sake of the mics, or she really didn't know. Either way, Finnick didn't care much.

He had spent most of the afternoon and some of the night writing the poem. He'd thought it would be easy: jot down some romantic phrases, add a few compliments of beauty to some unidentified Capitol women and he'd have the audience swooning. But when he actually tried to write it, he'd found that his pride wouldn't let him read some half-assed poem on national television. The problem was, he'd never been much of a literary type. The most he'd done was those little stories he told to Annie, and they were all myths passed down in their culture anyway.

So he'd spent a lot more time on it than he'd thought he would. But he was reasonably happy with the results.

Which was good, because now he had to read it in front of what was practically the entire country.

"A poem," he said, clearing his throat slightly. Then he looked up and said the five words that made the whole poem true.

"This is for you, mermaid."

And it didn't matter, didn't matter that probably half the women in the audience thought he was speaking to them. Because Finnick knew Annie was watching, and she knew that when he said these things – when he talked about beauty and grace and undying love – he was saying them to her, and to her alone.

When he finished, he was surprised to find that there were tears in his eyes. He tried to hide them as he sat back down, but he supposed he didn't do a very good job, because Mags patted his knee and the girl from District Five, who was seated on his other side, gave him a glowing look. Then again, maybe they would have done that anyway.

The other victors continued as according to plan. Playing on the crowd, like he had. Not until Katniss got up, in that ridiculous wedding dress, did he feel any real stirrings of interest. She didn't know about the plan. Neither she nor Peeta. He wondered how much Haymitch had told them.

Of course, by this time, the crowd was a mess. Flickerman had to wait a while before he could get a word in. "So, Katniss, obviously this is a very emotional night for everyone. Is there anything you'd like to say?"

Her voice shook. Acting or real emotion? "Only that I'm so sorry you won't get to be at my wedding…but I'm glad you at least get to see me in my dress. Isn't it just…the most beautiful thing?" And, like last year, she twirled in the dress.

Only this time, something happened. Instead of the last Games' flickering jewelled flames, smoke and soot rose up around her. Finnick started in his seat, sure that Cinna had pushed himself too far and something had gone wrong. But Katniss kept spinning. For one moment she was hidden by the fire. Then the flames disappeared revealing…

Feathers.

Feathers of a bird Finnick didn't recognize, though a bird it definitely was, soot black with great flowing wings and two white spots.

_Cinna, what are you playing at?_ he thought.

Flickerman hesitantly touched Katniss's crown. "Feathers," he said. "You're like a bird."

"A mockingjay, I think," Katniss answered. "It's the bird on the pin I wear as a token."

Oh.

A mockingjay.

As he realized all that signified, Finnick couldn't help but admire Cinna's bravery. He'd never done anything this dangerous as Annie's stylist. But then, he'd only been an apprentice at the time, and certainly hadn't had the reason. Now…

Flickerman was saying something, probably along similar lines, because Finnick saw Cinna stand in the audience and bow slightly. Did he realize the dangerous position he'd just put himself in? There was a tightness in his jaw that made Finnick think, _yes._

Katniss sat down and Peeta took her place. The first few lines he exchanged with Flickerman were pointless – stupid jokes about cooking and feathers. Then followed a nauseating dose of sentimental drabble. Something about them being already married. Finnick didn't doubt Peeta would have done it in a flash, but Katniss was the last person he thought would get married.

More drivel. Bleghh.

Finnick tuned it out. There wasn't anything he was saying worth listening to, except –

"Maybe I'd think that, too, Caesar," said Peeta, with uncharacteristic angst. "If it weren't for the baby."

_Baby? What the f—k?_ Finnick slewed around in his seat to stare at Katniss. She looked as stunned as the rest of them. Clearly Peeta was flying solo on this. Katniss wasn't pregnant any more than he was.

The audience was in an absolute uproar, screaming and crying. If this didn't do them for sure, Finnick didn't know what would. They were sure making a hell of a noise. The anthem had to be played at eardrum-splitting volume for anyone to hear it.

The victors all stood. As the music played, Finnick was conscious of a movement along the line. Then the girl from Five grasped his hand with tears sparkling in her eyes. Looking down the line, Finnick saw the others were holding hands, and he quickly grasped Mags's hand in his.

This was it, then. As they all stood in a line, it was as good as a declaration of war. _F—k you, Capitol_ they were saying. _We won't put up with your sh-t anymore._

There was no going back.


	3. Death Song  Part 1

The hovercraft hummed silently through the sky on its path to the arena. Finnick paced the room. Worrying. About Mags, about Annie, about the plan…about himself.

Caia wasn't onboard. That morning she had succumbed to a fit of hysterics and had had to be sedated. One of her assistants, Lumina, was onboard instead.

"Sit, Finnick," she said. "You need to eat – to drink something. Not waste your energy."

"I know," groaned Finnick, falling into the seat beside her and scrubbing his hands through his hair. "I just can't help it…"

Lumina looked at him kindly. She was about fifty years old now, with all the wrinkles smoothed out of her face and a flowing, electric-blue mohawk. "You'll do all right," she said. "I think you'll win."

For a second, Finnick was tempted to say, _It's not just about winning._ But ever since he had become part of the plot, he was seriously paranoid. Eyes were constantly watching him, ears constantly listening; any Capitol official or soldier he met could be there to arrest him. And now would be the worst time for him to say something like that.

Nausea began to claw at his stomach and he lowered his head to his knees, arms folded and eyes closed. He was scared, scared like he hadn't been ten years ago. _I was stupid then_, he thought bitterly. _ A stupid, stupid little kid who didn't care about anything or anyone but his own pretty face…_

And then…_Oh, Annie, Annie,_ he cried silently. _I love you so much._

"C'mon." Lumina lightly touched his back. "You need to eat something."

Finnick forced down food and water, though he couldn't taste anything and the nausea was steadily building. He'd been queasy last time, too. _Sh-t,_ thought Finnick. _I really hope I don't – _

Finnick barely had time to lean away from Lumina before he puked all over the hovercraft floor. As he sat up, shaking, and wiped a hand over his mouth, she looked at him worriedly.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." And he meant it. As he took a swig of water and swished it around his mouth, he realized that not only was the nausea gone, but his head felt lighter and clearer. By the time the craft landed and Lumina was helping him dress in the Launch Room, he was alert and on edge.

The outfit was unusual, sure, but it didn't give him much clue to what the arena would be like. He doubted it would be the standard forest, though. And there was his token, of course. The golden bracelet that would be a sign to Katniss to trust him.

"All right," said Lumina, unnecessarily smoothing out the fabric on his shoulders. "All set, then…" There was a little catch in her voice.

Finnick looked her squarely in the eyes. "Thanks," he said. "And – and tell Caia thanks too."

Lumina tried to smile. "Not at all." She swiftly hugged him, then stepped back.

_Right._ All Finnick's attention was focused inwards now as he stepped on the metal plate. The glass slid soundless down around him and he closed his eyes.

Listening to his pulse, his breath, the rhythm of his body.

Don't think. Just listen.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Feel his heart beat.

The plate rose.

Finnick waited until he could feel open air on his face.

Then he opened his eyes – and laughed.

Could there have been a more perfect situation? Water, his element, his playmate since birth, surrounded him on all sides. Compared to his other Games, this was a haven, a paradise.

The Cornucopia gleamed golden in the middle of the arena; the tributes were arranged around it. And encircling the water, a strip of sand and forest.

Right, then. Finnick automatically tensed the muscles in his body, waiting for the gong. Any second now…he rose onto his toes…nervous excitement swelled in his stomach…

_Bonnggg._

Finnick dived in, slick as a seal and fast as a shark. When he resurfaced he was halfway to the Cornucopia already. Three or four powerful strokes brought him to the sand. All the supplies were near the mouth of the Cornucopia. He could see a golden trident gleaming, waiting for him, right on top of a net…

But as he lunged forward to snatch them up, Katniss sprinted in front of him. She had barely grabbed a golden bow before she spun around to face him, arrow nocked and ready. Finnick, his weapons in his hands, froze. His immediate instinct had been to attack, but that was bad, that was very bad…Katniss must not die.

"You can swim, too," he said with a tight little smile. "Where did you learn that in District Twelve?" _Put down the bow, I'm on your side, please, please, don't shoot me…_

"We have a big bathtub," she snapped. Sarcasm?

"You must," said Finnick. _Just put the bow down._ "You like the arena?"

"Not particularly," she said sourly. "But you should. They must have built it especially for you."

Now there was an idea…Perhaps – Finnick halted the train of thought before he was distracted. He watched Katniss, waiting for her to make a move.

But she didn't. So he grinned and said, "Lucky thing we're allies, right?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously and he saw her fingers tighten on the bow. Desperate, he jerked his hand, hoping the movement would draw her attention to the bangle.

It worked. He saw her eyes flick to it and her face briefly relax. Then approaching footsteps brought all the tension back.

"Right!" she snapped. Behind her, Phobes from District 5 appeared and Finnick had no time to think.

"Duck!" he ordered, and hurled the trident straight into his chest. "Don't trust One and Two," he said as he yanked it out.

Katniss bent and freed her sheath of arrows. "Each take one side?"

Finnick nodded and looked through the Cornucopia's gifts. Everything in there was metallic and deadly. No food, no supplies…just weapons? Enobaria and Gloss were approaching.

"Anything useful?" he called.

"Weapons!" she shouted. "Nothing but weapons!"

That meant the land held supplies. "Same here," he answered. "Grab what you want and let's go!" The only weapons he really felt comfortable using were his trident and net, but he grabbed a knife all the same. And a couple extra tridents.

Sprinting to meet Katniss, he found that Brutus was charging towards them with all the stealth of a rutting bull. "Do something about that, would you?" he said, his casual tone masking his regret. Brutus had been a friend, a comrade. And Finnick sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to shoot him.

But Katniss's arrow was blocked by the belt Brutus was holding. Before either could act he had thrown himself underwater again. Clangs of metal behind them told Finnick that others had reached the weapons too.

"Let's clear out," said Katniss.

_I couldn't agree more,_ thought Finnick. But then he saw her eyes move automatically to Peeta.

Lover Boy was still on his plate. Apparently _he _didn't have a big bathtub at home.

Katniss ran towards Peeta and Finnick shadowed her. When she began to remove her weapons from her belt, he put a hand on her shoulder. "I'll get him."

Suspicion showed on her face. So she still didn't trust him. Good. She would have been an idiot if she had. "I can," she said stubbornly.

Finnick lowered his weapons to the sand, ignoring her. On impulse, he leaned forward and patted her stomach. "Better not exert yourself. Not in your condition."

That fazed her enough to give him time to move to the edge of the water. "Cover me," he shot over his shoulder, and dived in. The quick breath he took told him Mags was moving towards Katniss. Good.

He reached Peeta, but before he could speak Finnick said, "Katniss trusts me, we're allies. She's right there on the shore. I'll help you swim back." And he held up the wrist with the bangle.

Peeta's blue eyes tightened as he read Finnick's expression. Then he nodded. "All right."

Finnick slid back into the water, keeping one hand on Peeta's arm. Peeta plunged in with about as much grace as a lumbering cow, but it was easy for Finnick to flip him into a dead man's carry and tow him back to Katniss, who rushed forward to drag him onto the beach.

"Hello, again," said Peeta, kissing her. "We've got allies." Finnick listened to them with only half his mind, preferring to keep an eye out for danger while they exchanged sweet nothings.

"Yes," she answered. "Just as Haymitch intended."

Peeta asked if they'd made other alliances and Finnick listened harder. Had they? And with who?

"Only Mags, I think."

Really? "Well, I can't leave Mags behind," said Finnick. "She's one of the few people who actually likes me." How true was that, he wondered.

"I've got no problem with Mags," said Katniss. "Especially now that I see the arena. Her fishhooks are probably our best chance of getting a meal."

"Katniss wanted her on the first day." Peeta jumped in like a knight errant coming to Katniss's rescue.

"Katniss has remarkably good judgement," said Finnick, trying very hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Mags had reached the shore, but needed help getting out of the water; Finnick reached down and easily helped her up.

"It's far too easy t' swim," she said. "The belt's a bob – it keeps ya up."

From Katniss and Peeta's blank faces, he could tell they couldn't understand a word of what Mags was saying. But Bolts, floundering around in the water but floating like a cork, was there to helpfully illustrate her point.

"Look, she's right," said Finnick, pointing to him. "Someone figured it out."

"What?" said Katniss.

"The belts. They're flotation devices. I mean, you have to propel yourself, but they'll keep you from drowning."

Peeta nodded once. Katniss was already handing him weapons. Mags hobbled over, repeatedly asking for the awl Katniss had in her belt. Finnick was about to interpret when Katniss appeared to understand and handed the tool over. Mags held the awl in her mouth and reached two withered arms to Finnick, with a wink only he could see. Smiling grimly, Finnick tossed her on his shoulder over the net, grasped his tridents, and ran along the sandy spoke until he reached the woods.

Which, to be honest, he didn't spend much time in looking at. They weren't exactly there for the scenery. But what he did pick up – dark, spongy earth, heat and humidity, and strange trees covered in moss and vines – was unlike any forest he had ever seen before.

They walked single file, Peeta hacking a path through the undergrowth, then Finnick with Mags – damn, the old girl got heavier by the minute – and Katniss bringing up the rear. The stifling heat – so unlike the cool sea breezes he was used to – made it hard for him to really get his breath. Not until his lungs felt like they were going to implode from the pressure and Mags weighed about a hundred tons did he speak.

"Let's stop here," he said. "We all need a rest."

The others agreed and Finnick swung Mags off his back, putting a hand out to steady her on her feet. "All right?" he asked.

Mags nodded. "Are ya?"

"Yeah." Finnick tried and failed to get a really deep breath. Looking around, he saw Katniss had disappeared. "Where's our heroine?"

"She climbed a tree," said Peeta, jerking his chin belligerently at one a few paces away. "I think she wants to survey the arena."

"Fair enough." But Finnick knew that the second she was alone, she would start thinking. Thinking led to doubts. And she still didn't trust him. And seeing all the victors – who were more or less friends – killing each other wouldn't do anything to help.

Cracking his neck, he waited for Katniss to descend from the tree. Her feet appeared first, but it was the tight, hard look on her face that made him raise his trident, all the while keeping it seemingly nonchalant.

"What's going on down there, Katniss?" he said, only slightly mocking. "Have they all joined hands? Taken a vow of nonviolence? Tossed the weapons to the sea in a defiance of the Capitol?"

"No," she said shortly.

"No," said Finnick. "Because whatever happened in the past is in the past. And no one in this arena was a victor by chance." Well, except Lover Boy, who in all honesty should have died last year. "Except maybe Peeta."

And she still didn't trust him. Finnick could see her eyeing him, preparing to attack. _Dammit, girl, I'm only trying to help_…He was still trying to figure out how to incapacitate her without seriously wounding her when Peeta planted himself between them.

"So how many are dead?"

One more if he didn't move. The guy was seriously an idiot.

"Hard to say," said Katniss. "At least six, I think. And they're still fighting."

Six? Already? Damn, that was a lot…

"Let's get moving. We need water," said Peeta.

Good point. Although there was so much water in the air Finnick wasn't sure they needed it.

"Better find some soon," he said – because yes, they would want it. "We need to be undercover when the others come hunting us tonight." As he had little doubt they would.

They continued to walk, hiking up the mountain. At last they reached a space where the trees could be seen merging into rocky ground. Katniss halted, looking frustrated. "Maybe we'll have better luck on the other side. Find a spring or something."

Even as she spoke, her eyes were focused on something else – something in the air. Finnick tried to figure out what she was looking at when Peeta, lashing out with his knife to cut vines away, suddenly was hurled back towards them with an almighty crack. His descent to earth brought both Finnick and Mags crashing down as well.

F—k, that hurt. Mags had had the luck to land in a tangle of plants, but Finnick's shoulder had come into direct contact with a large rock. Grimacing, he pushed himself up as Katniss, who had already bent over Peeta, began to shake him and scream his name.

_Sh-t! What the –_

Finnick helped Mags into a sitting position against a tree and scrambled over, shoving Katniss off of Peeta's body. He felt for a pulse, for breath. Nothing. His mind was working furiously. Whatever Peeta had hit, that zap was definitely electric. Peeta's heart was stopped…CPR.

Autodrive kicked into life in Finnick's brain and he pinched Peeta's nostril's together. Katniss screamed again and attacked him. Instinctively, his hand flew out and hit her in the chest, sending her sprawling. Ouch. Sorry.

Then he returned to the artificial respiration, shutting down any qualms or squeamishness and settling into the familiar motions. Everyone in District Four learned CPR. It was a necessity. Especially for the sailors, who spent so much of their lives at imminent risk of drowning.

Peeta's lungs filled with air, Finnick turned his attention to restarting his heart. Again, this was familiar. Rhythmic. Almost relaxing, to be doing something he didn't have to think about. But as precious seconds ticked by and Peeta still showed no life, Finnick began to worry. There was only so long he could do this for.

Finally, Peeta coughed. Exhausted – damn this hot air – Finnick sat back to allow the couple to kiss and cry. There wasn't any kissing, but pretty soon Katniss was crying – and couldn't seem to stop.

Finnick figured it was time to play the pregnancy card, for the sponsors. "It's okay. It's just her hormones. From the baby."

Bizarrely, that only made her cry harder. Was it possible? Was she actually…? Puzzled, Finnick looked from her to Peeta and back again. Maybe their relationship was more serious than he had thought…

Whatever.

"How are you?" he asked Peeta. "Do you think you can move on?"

"No," said Katniss immediately. "He has to rest." Mags considerately handed her a handful of moss to use as a tissue.

_Look_, thought Finnick angrily_, I appreciate that you're concerned about him, but staying put really isn't a good idea right now._

They were exchanging comments on their tokens now. What the hell?

"So you want to make camp here, then?" said Finnick, bringing the lovers back to earth.

"I don't think that's an option," said Peeta, surprising him. "Staying here. With no water. No protection. I feel all right, really. If we could just go slowly."

He wasn't all right, Finnick was pretty sure about that. But – "Slowly would be better than not at all." Extending a hand, he helped Peeta, who tried to hide a grimace as he staggered upright. Peeta needn't have bothered, however – Katniss was totally engrossed in her weapons.

"I'll take the lead," she said.

Predictably, Peeta began to protest, but before he could get anything out, Finnick said, "No, let her do it." Somehow, Katniss had had advance knowledge of that force field. "You knew that force field was there, didn't you?" he asked her. "Right at the last second? You started to give a warning." She nodded. "How did you know?"

Katniss paused. Why? Did she not want to tell him the trick? Did she _still_ not trust him, after he practically brought Peeta back from the dead? Finnick half-wanted to shake her in frustration.

"I don't know," she said at last. "It's almost as if I could hear it. Listen."

Finnick listened, hard. But he heard nothing abnormal.

"I don't hear anything," said Peeta.

"Yes, it's like when the fence around District Twelve is on, only much, much quieter." Right. Finnick had no idea what she meant by the fence being "on." Hell, how was he supposed to know what it was like in Twelve? "There!" she said, like it had suddenly become clearer. "Can't you hear it? It's coming from right where Peeta got shocked."

"I don't hear it, either," said Finnick. "But if you do, by all means, take the lead." He wasn't going to argue with her.

Katniss turned her head experimentally. "That's weird," she said. "I can only hear it out of my left ear."

"The one the doctors reconstructed?" Peeta supplied helpfully.

"Yeah," she said, shrugging, and began to extrapolate on her enhanced hearing. Oh, the clever little b-tch. Whatever she really knew about force fields, she was clearly bullsh-tting all this about her reconstructed ear. Diverting the Capitol's suspicion onto whatever doctor fixed it. Damn.

Mags prodded her into the lead. "You." With a guilty shock, Finnick realized he had barely thought about Mags since the Games started. She seemed okay, though…Finnick made her a staff out of a tree branch so she could walk easier. Then he realized Peeta was going to have trouble moving as well, so he made him a staff too. And so they walked on – following their Mockingjay.

* * *

Katniss's cry, harsh with panic, jerked Finnick to his senses.

"Run!" she shrieked. But no sooner had he jumped to his feet than he realized that the enemy was not a mutt or other tributes, but a rapidly advancing bank of fog. Without taking the time to think what it might do, he flung Mags over his shoulder and took off at a dead run. The movement jolted Mags awake.

"Finnick, what's goin' on?" she demanded.

"Fog," panted Finnick. "Dangerous." And he saved his breath for running.

Soon he realized, however, that Katniss and Peeta were some yards back. Peeta, weakened by his encounter with the force field, was slow – too slow. And he kept tripping, too.

"Come on!" called Finnick, an edge of panic to his voice. "Come on, just keep moving!" He started jogging again, continuing to call out reassurances. But it didn't help. The next time he looked back, it was to see them both sprawl to the ground. Their limbs were jerking oddly as they tried to stand, only three feet from the deadly fog. Finnick's stomach lurched with sickening fear as he realized that the fog did more than burn through their skin like acid. It caused nerve damage, too.

"Sh-t!" He ran back, Mags clinging to his back like a monkey with her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Grabbing Peeta's arm, Finnick pulled him along. But even with Katniss, it was too much of an effort. And Peeta was still too slow.

"It's no good," gasped Finnick. "I'll have to carry him myself. Can you take Mags?"

"Yes," said Katniss, though her arms were twitching uncontrollably. The minute Mags clambered off of his back, Finnick pulled Peeta over his shoulder and began running again. It struck him that if they got out of the jungle, the fog might stop, so he took a diagonal course both away from the fog and towards the beach. But he couldn't run nearly as fast, not carrying Peeta. His skin began to burn horribly as the fog reached out with vaporous fingers. It hurt…dear God, it hurt…

Behind him, Katniss and Mags crashed to the ground. They managed to regain their feet, but fell again only a few seconds later. When they fell the third time, neither got up.

Cursing internally, Finnick ran back. Katniss looked up at him from the ground, the moonlight shining faintly on her face. "It's no use," she said. "Can you take them both? Go on ahead, I'll catch up."

He couldn't. He could only save one, and the choice had already been made. "No," he said. The pressure on his heart forced tears into his eyes. "I can't carry them both. My arms aren't working." They twitched and danced like someone else controlled them. And the fog crept inexorably closer.

"I'm sorry, Mags," Finnick said. Guilt and pain burned him far worse than the mist did, making his voice shake. "I can't do it."

But Mags understood they had to save Peeta. She'd been expecting to die the minute she volunteered. With surprising speed, she got up, kissed Finnick, and walked right into the deadly white fog.

Finnick didn't stay to watch her die. He spun around, Peeta – the goddamn, useless sonofab-tch – hanging over his shoulder, and ran for the beach. The acid burned, working its way deeper into his body. His arms spasmed, his skin was raw. And the skin on his face stung where the tears ran down it. He ran until his lungs couldn't seem to get any air and he collapsed to the ground. Pain threatened to overwhelm him.

Peeta was crushing all the air out of him, too, but Finnick didn't have strength to push him off. Then Katniss sprawled over them, adding her weight too. Finnick simply lay there, his face pressed into the earth, pain attacking him from both inside and out. Mags…dead…they'd expected this. Prepared for this. But he'd never thought she'd die voluntarily, when it was in his power to save her.

Katniss had managed to drag herself off of them. For a second, Finnick hated her intensely. If it wasn't for her and her bloody "priority," Mags would still be alive…she didn't even love Peeta.

Some garbled croaking attempt at speech came out of her mouth. Her second try came out clearer. Something-"stopped."

Wearily, Finnick turned his head. The fog indeed had stopped. Hooray. Peeta finally getting off of him and letting him breathe was a far better cause for rejoicing, though the pain was so bad he could hardly focus on anything else.

And it was only getting worse. Finnick wondered if it traveled through the blood like venom, if each beat of his heart spread more and more poison…? He was vaguely aware of Peeta gasping something. Not until Katniss and Peeta began to drag themselves toward the beach did he muster the energy to crawl with them, inch by agonizing inch. They reached the sand, and then –

Pain rocketed through Finnick's body at the touch of the salt water. He could only back a few inches away before agony so complete it nearly overwhelmed him left him motionless on the sand. Pain…pain…it was all he could process. Every inch of his skin, even his mouth and nose and eyes, was little more than throbbing distress.

Oh God, it hurt…and it didn't stop. In a state where every second hurt, a minute was like an hour. An hour of unceasing pain.

When change came, it was worse. Spikes of intense agony shot up his fists.

By the time the sharper pain began in his arms, he dimly realized that it was Katniss and Peeta, pouring water on him. It hurt worse than the fog – once or twice he twitched and moaned, unable to tell them to stop. They didn't listen.

Then someone grabbed his feet and swung him around. Suddenly his feet were immersed in what seemed like liquid fire. But by now Finnick had realized something else – yes, the water hurt, but after the pain came a blessed cessation of the pain. So he simply lay there and let them pull him, bit by bit, into the water.

Gradually, the hurt and sting began to leave and his consciousness returned. Opening his smarting eyes, he saw Katniss's face above him, a black shape against the dim blue of the false sky. With a tenderness he hadn't expected from her, she pulled his head onto her lap, his body submerged. Finnick closed his eyes again, pretending it was Annie who held him, that it was her fingers on the side of his head. In his half-dazed state, it was only too easy to convince himself that it was her. He'd actually reached for her before remembering where he was and turned the movement into a stretch.

"There's just your head left, Finnick," said Peeta. "That's the worst part, but you'll feel much better after, if you can bear it."

If you can bear it…Thanks a lot. Finnick sat up – with their help – and gripped their hands. _Yes, this'll hurt like hell,_ thought. _Just screw up and do it._

Taking a deep breath, he plunged his head under the surface. Christ, it hurt! But within seconds the agony began to fade away. He held on until he was out of air before surfacing.

"I'm going to try to tap a tree," said Katniss. What? Oh, right, the spile-thingamajig.

"Let me make the hole first," said Peeta. "You stay with him. You're the healer."

Katniss a healer? Since when? Finnick ignored her as Peeta tromped back up to the trees, preferring to focus on regaining his coordination and purging the last of the poison. The water, warmer than he was used to, became more and more soothing on his raw skin. It was like a mother's touch, this gentle, watery embrace that gradually brought him back to life. For a while, Finnick played in the water as he hadn't since before his first Hunger Games, forgetting all the bloodshed in the healing caress of his element.

Katniss was watching him. Finnick dived, coming to rest on the sandy floor. He waited until he couldn't possibly hold his breath any longer and shot to the surface only a few inches from Katniss, startling her.

"Don't do that," she said.

"What? Come up or stay under?"

"Either. Neither. Whatever. Just soak in the water or behave." Since when was playing not behaving? Finnick was tempted to grab her hand and drag her underwater when she added, "Or if you're feeling this good, let's go help Peeta."

Oh, goody. Finnick wanted to keep swimming, but the practical voice in his head said that he wasn't here to play games. Grumbling silently, he hauled himself out of the water and trudged behind Katniss to go help Peeta.

* * *

From the shadow of the trees, Finnick watched as Peeta floated the morphling's body in the warm ocean. He hadn't expected her to save Peeta like that; now he realized that she must have been in on the rebel plan as well. It made him wonder what else Haymitch and Heavensbee hadn't told him.

All the same, though, Finnick was glad he hadn't known. Because, to be honest, the morphlings scared him. Something about them – their wasted, skeletal figures or those huge staring eyes – gave him the creeps. Or maybe it was the fact that they were wrecks of humanity that inspired that almost primal fear in him.

Whatever the reason, the last thing he wanted was to watch one die. So he had volunteered to "watch" the trees, leaving Katniss and Peeta to deal with the dying morphling. Not until the cannon fired and the hovercraft came to take her body did he walk back down the beach to Katniss and Peeta, who were little more than shapes in the dim moonlight.

"Thought you might want these," he said, handing Katniss a fistfull of her arrows.

"Thanks," she said, and started washing them off. When they were clean, she headed back into the jungle for moss, leaving Finnick and Peeta temporarily alone.

Finnick didn't feel like talking. With the adrenaline of battle leaving his veins, the loss of Mags weighed down on him more heavily than ever. Propping his elbows on his knees, he let his head fall between his arms, hoping Peeta would get the hint.

He didn't.

"You know, I never thanked you for saving my life," Peeta said.

Finnick shrugged wearily. "S'all right."

"No, I mean it." Splashing sounds from the water told Finnick Peeta was washing himself off. Belatedly, Finnick realized he was splattered in monkey blood. He didn't much care. His acid-scarred skin itched like hell, though.

Katniss returned. The moon was brighter; Finnick could see her perplexed expression. "The monkeys' bodies have vanished," she said. "Where did they go?"

Finnick had noticed that earlier. "We don't know exactly." _We? Why am I talking in the plural?_ "The vines shifted and they were gone."

Did it matter, really?

The three of them sat on the beach, staring at the jungle. Finnick didn't know what Katniss and Peeta were thinking about, but all his thoughts returned inexorably to the fact that Mags was dead. And his skin itched.

"Don't scratch," said Katniss, sounding exactly like the mother of a five-year-old. "You'll only bring infection. Think it's safe to try the water again?"

In the time he had been resting and cooling off since the fight (cooling off being a figure of speech, an icicle couldn't get cool in this hot air), Finnick's muscles had stiffened. He barely stifled a groan as he levered himself off the sand and followed Katniss and Peeta to the tree. Remembering the jungle was still dangerous, he followed Katniss's suit in standing guard. It only took Peeta a little time to get a good stream going. That water was warm, and had a strange aftertaste, but it was the best drink Finnick had ever had. It felt good on his tingling skin, too.

As they returned to the beach, Finnick could feel the tears welling up. His self-control, sabotaged by exhaustion and injury, was slipping. He desperately wanted to be alone, to be by himself…

"Why don't you two get some rest?" said Katniss. "I'll watch for a while."

Well, sleep was a sort of privacy. "No, Katniss, I'd rather," he said.

Her eyes searched his face with an intensity he hadn't expected. "All right, Finnick, thanks," she said softly. She understood.

Katniss and Peeta lay down in the sand a few feet away. Finnick lowered his stiff and aching body to the ground. Taking off his shoes, he let the surf lap at his feet. God, he missed the ocean. Not this tepid, lifeless pool. He missed the endless surge and crash of the ocean in District Four, the sharp smell of brine on the air, the icy water that brought the blood to your skin and the life to your heart…He missed home. He missed Annie. He missed Mags.

And now the tears he had been fighting for hours refused to be restrained any longer. Bowing his head – not caring that there were cameras on him, that millions were watching – he began to cry low, broken sobs that were hardly louder than the hiss of water on sand but shook his entire body with racking pain.

Mags had been a mentor, teacher, mother-figure, friend, his last true ally in this arena, his only link to Annie and home. Her loss meant he was alone; it dragged up half-forgotten memories of Gaila's passing.

After about fifteen minutes, Finnick's sobs quieted, the sharp, piercing pain replaced by a duller ache. In his head, he said a little prayer, though he wasn't sure to whom. Mags had essentially died for Annie, died so that Annie would be safe. That had to count for something. He hoped there was a life after death. Otherwise…what did anything matter?

Point by bright point, little stars began to appear in the artificial sky. Finnick stared up at them, wondering. Was this something that would happen every night? Was it simply designed to be a "natural" event? Or did it hold some greater significance?

And then…a handful of stars, brighter than the others, formed themselves into a shape instantly familiar to Finnick. To someone not from District Four, it would look like nothing – a V, perhaps with a shape at each end of the prongs. But at home, every child knew this constellation. The Fish. It was a symbol of hope, renewal, of better things to come.

Finnick stared up at it, his face wet with tears. There was no way, _no possible way_ that could be there by accident. Most of the people watching wouldn't understand – nor would anyone in the Capitol. But somehow, Plutarch Heavensbee had made this happen, for Finnick…

Suddenly frustrated, Finnick struck the sand with his fists. What _was_ this? Why was he so goddamn important? All he had ever wanted was to live a peaceful, happy life, first with his family and then with Annie. But he had gotten roped into the damn Hunger Games, and since then he had somehow gotten himself tangled into a mess of events that were too big, too important, for him to understand why they even mattered.

A soft sound interrupted his existential crisis. Finnick whipped around, sure it was another tribute sneaking up on them, but it was only Katniss. Still asleep, she turned and rolled so that her face pressed against Peeta's chest.

Annie sometimes did that…Finnick stared at the pair. In his typical cynical way, he had refused to believe they were really in love. It made him feel better. Here was another couple, their lives f—ked up as bad as his and Annie's. It was another reason to hate the Capitol. But now…Finnick had no idea. He really didn't.

And it didn't matter – except he missed Annie so, so much. Looking back up at the sky, he saw the stars had faded. Their message given, they were gone before anyone could get suspicious. But the moon was brighter than ever.

Finnick wondered if Annie was watching. If she had been…normal…he had no doubt she would have been glued to the television screen. But he wasn't sure if her fragile nerves would be able to handle the stress. Then again, maybe she was stronger than he thought. He didn't know.

He hoped she was watching. It was a comfort to believe someone he loved was seeing him, loving him back just as fervently. He knew Riley and Ciara would be watching – and Connor – but it wasn't the same.

And then the fierce longing for Annie flared up so strongly within him that it shook him to his core. Everything he had known about their relationship – why they could never marry, how the Capitol forced them to be apart – came crashing down on with the force of a thousand tons. He would die in these games – she would go fully and irrecoverably mad – it would all be over.

Finnick wept on and off throughout the night, though never with the painful intensity of those first fifteen minutes.

As the sun began to rise, Finnick searched for something to do. He began weaving, though it reminded him of Mags, bringing the tears back temporarily. A mat to shade the two lovers. Bowls of grass – two to hold water, a third to hold the clams and oysters he had found on the seabed.

Katniss woke first, looking around at his handiwork. Finnick knew he looked like he had been crying; to distract her, he said, "They're better fresh" – referring to the shellfish he was cracking open.

Clearly ravenous, she stretched out her hand, but then paused. Finnick saw that her nails were bloody. She'd been scratching herself in her sleep.

"You know, if you scratch you'll bring on infection," said Finnick blandly.

"That's what I've heard," she answered, going into the ocean to wash. Finnick continued to crack shells, watching her idly. _She's really not that bad-looking_, he thought. _I mean, if I'm going to be stuck allied with a girl in just her underclothes, there could be worse choices_…Like Enobaria. Bleghh. Or the morphling.

Katniss tramped out of the water, clearly irritated. For a second, Finnick was worried his thoughts had shown on his face, but she shouted "Hey, Haymitch, if you're not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin," up at the sky.

In about thirty seconds a parachute floated down, bearing a tube full of some sort of ointment. "About time," said Katniss as she received it, trying to frown but failing.

Sitting next to him, Katniss opened the tube, revealing a dark paste with a sharp, piney smell. Finnick sniffed with interest and watched as Katniss smeared a glob of it across her leg, her expression skeptical. A second later, though, she sighed in relief. Clearly it worked – though the visual effect was less than attractive.

After covering her other leg – and making it seem like she had contracted some ghastly skin disease – she lobbed him the tube.

"It's like your decomposing," he said. He had never been quite so aware of the hundreds of thousands of people watching him as he had been now. And yet, this damn itching…

Katniss watched smugly as he resignedly covered himself in the goop. "Poor Finnick," she said. "Is this the first time in your life you haven't looked pretty?"

Actually, that didn't bother him so much as the fact that he actually _minded_ not looking good. But if she thought she could get all sarcastic with him… "It must be," he answered. "The sensation's completely new. How have you managed it all these years?" _Zing!_

"Just avoid mirrors," she said, apparently unfazed. Damn. "You'll forget about it."

"Not if I keep looking at you."

Done complimenting each other, they continued to apply ointment. There was a sort of camraderie in looking hideous together, and in rubbing medicine on each other's backs. So when Katniss proposed waking Peeta, Finnick had an idea.

"No, wait," he said. "Let's do it together. Put our faces right in front of his."

The concept tickled Katniss. "All right," she said.

Together, they got on either side of Peeta, faces barely apart from his. "Peeta. Peeta, wake up," sang Katniss, shaking him.

Peeta woke spectacularly, first blinking bemusedly and then jumping about a mile, with a shout to match. Finnick burst out laughing, collapsing on the beach next to Katniss. Peeta stood over them, trying to pull off offended pride…Finnick laughed until his ribs ached and he thought he might have burst a lung. At last, he managed to calm down, wiping the tears from his eyes.

It was then that he noticed the bread.

Down it came, floating gently under its little silver parachute. A large, rounded loaf with a hard crust and that faint tinge of green that only District Four bread had. He immediately took it, wondering. Haymitch and Heavensbee had told him messages would come through bread – rolls, they had said. But this…they hadn't mentioned this loaf. Was it part of the plan?

Finnick became aware of Katniss's eyes on him. And for the hundredth time, he wondered exactly how much she knew. If this were important, would Haymitch somehow have a way to tell him? Should he let on what he knew, somehow – find a way to communicate without letting the Capitol know?

"This will go well with the shellfish," said Finnick.


	4. Death Song Part 2

The three figures stood out, deep red against the pale sand of the beach. Finnick watched them with narrowed eyes. Surely they were tributes…but at this distance, who? And why that ghastly color?

"Who is that?" asked Peeta. "Or what? Muttations?"

Hardly likely, Finnick thought. Those were definitely humans…one of the trio, who had been hauling another along, let its companion fall to the ground with an obvious show of exasperation. Stomping its foot, it went to the third figure – which was wandering around in circles like a derailed ant – and pushed it for no apparent reason.

Johanna. Of course. Who else would act like that?

"Johanna!" shouted Finnick, aware of the note of relief in his voice. It wasn't that he liked Johanna _personally_, he thought as he ran towards them. It was just that she was an essential part of the plan. And they should have met up before this.

"Finnick!" Johanna's face temporarily lit up before she frowned. "About time – I was wondering what happened."

"A lot of things," said Finnick, his voice catching slightly. But he wasn't going to talk about Mags with Johanna.

"What about you?" he asked. Now that they were close, he could see that the red coloring was a coat of dried blood. His stomach turned.

"I got to the Cornucopia all right, but by the time I had my bearings Nuts and Volts had disappeared into the jungle. Blight joined up with me, and we went in to find them. Not much happened, until after the lightning hit that tree. Then all these clouds came, and there was liquid coming down. We thought it was rain, you know, because of the lightning, and we were all so thirsty. But when it started coming down, it turned out to be blood. Thick, hot blood. You couldn't see, you couldn't speak without getting a mouthful. We just staggered around, trying to get out of it. That's when Blight hit the force field."

"I'm sorry, Johanna," said Finnick. Actually, he was slightly nauseated. He had never known Blight, nor did he think Johanna much affected by his loss, but the idea of a rain of blood was repugnant. He was aware that Katniss and Peeta had joined them.

"Yeah, well, he wasn't much, but he was from home," said Johanna in her typical careless manner. "And he left me alone with these two. He got a knife in the back at the Cornucopia," she said, prodding Volts with her toe. "And her – "

Automatically, everyone's heads turned to the now aptly-nicknamed Nuts. Not only was she wandering in those deranged circles, but she was muttering, "Tick, tock. Tick, tock."

"Yeah, we know," said Johanna, with a commendable lack of sympathy. "Tick, tock. Nuts is in shock." Nuts's wandering course brought her straight into Johanna. Before Finnick could react, she pushed Nuts so hard she fell to the sand. "Just stay down, will you?"

"Lay off her," snapped Katniss. Finnick stared at her in slight awe. He'd never seen Katniss really mad; now her hair was practically crackling in fury.

Johanna glared at her with the force of a thousand desert suns. "Lay off her?" she hissed, and slapped Katniss _hard_. "Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you? You – "

That was it. Mad enough to do some b-tch-slapping himself, Finnick grabbed Johanna and submerged her in the ocean again. And again. She kept cussing Katniss out the whole time, despite the fact that Katniss had departed with Peeta, Nuts, and Volts.

Finally, Johanna shut up. Finnick waited a second to make sure she was really done before releasing her. Spitting water and wet hair out of her mouth, Johanna hauled herself back onto the beach. "What the hell was that?" she demanded.

"Sorry," said Finnick shortly, floating on his back in the water. "Just trying to get all the blood off."

"Trying to get – " Johanna pointed at him, apparently incensed beyond words. "Who do you bloody think – "

"No pun intended, I hope?" said Finnick, raising his eyebrows.

Johanna treated him to a basilisk glare. "Let's get back to the others," she snapped. "They're starting to look good even compared to your pretty face – though it's not so pretty now," she added, casting an eye over the mess of dark green ointment and peeling scabs.

"Only temporary, love," said Finnick, standing and splashing to the shore. As they walked the short stretch of beach to where the others were grouped, Johanna flashed him a very different look. Not hostile, not skeptical – but expectant. And slightly worried.

Finnick knew what it was about. Their plan, of course. But he had no idea of knowing what she specifically wanted or feared, and no way of asking. Or answering, for that matter.

They reached the others – Katniss, Peeta, a nude and bandaged Volts, and a still-circling Nuts. It was a good thing they had a steady supply of food and water, because Johanna just kept shoving it all down her throat. She probably would have eaten all of it if Katniss hadn't saved some for Nuts.

As Johanna ate, Finnick told their "adventures." He found it was easier for him to recount everything if he kept his words short and his tone disinterested. He left out Mags' death. Johanna probably wouldn't care, and he didn't want her scorn or unconcern.

At last, she was done stuffing her face. "Right," she said. "We should probably get some sleep. Who's up for guard duty?"

"I'll do it," said Finnick automatically.

"No, you stayed up last night," said Katniss. "You need sleep." Her concern caught him off guard.

"I'll do it," said Peeta. "You need to rest, too, Katniss."

"I'm not tired at all," she countered. "I'll guard."

"Me too," said Johanna suddenly. "I won't – I don't feel like lying down." She shuddered slightly.

"Right, then." Feeling a little awkward, Finnick lay down a few feet away. The sand was too hard to be comfortable, the sun too bright to induce sleep – even though he was dog-tired. Eventually, he stopped shifting position and just lay very still, hoping slumber would come to him. His back was to Johanna and Katniss, so he couldn't see them. But he could still hear their quiet conversation.

"How'd you lose Mags?" Johanna asked.

"In the fog," Katniss replied. "Finnick had Peeta. I had Mags for a while. Then I couldn't lift her. Finnick said he couldn't take them both. She kissed him and walked right into the poison."

"She was Finnick's mentor, you know," said Johanna. She sounded angry, but not venomous.

After a beat, Katniss responded. "No, I didn't," she said softly.

"She was half his family," said Johanna, almost civilly. Finnick, eyes closed, bit his knuckle so that he wouldn't make a sound and betray himself. But it was interesting – Johanna, whom he had thought would be totally unaffected, was defending him…

"So what were you doing with Nuts and Volts?" asked Katniss.

"I told you," said Johanna briskly. "I got them for you. Haymitch said if we were to be allies I had to bring them to you." She paused, maybe judging Katniss's reaction. "That's what you told him, right?"

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

That was…interesting. Katniss had no idea of the plan (supposedly), yet she had wanted Nuts and Volts as allies, despite the fact that they were clearly undesirable. And she had wanted Mags. And had been strangely kind to the morphling. Finnick felt as if he were seeing a new side of her. Maybe there was a good heart there, under the tough layer she had had to adopt for the Hunger Games. Like he really was a good guy, under that sarcastic mask he wore.

Finnick wasn't sure when, but at some point he passed from reflections to dreams.

* * *

In what only seemed like a few minutes, he was awakened by someone shaking him. "Get up," said Katniss, in that sharp voice no one ever disobeyed. "We have to move."

Shaking sand out of his hair, Finnick sat up and gazed blearily at her. "What?"

"A clock," she said impatiently. "The arena is a clock, divided into twelve sections. Every hour, something happens in a section. At midnight and noon, lightning hits that tree. Then the blood rain starts. Then the fog, then the monkeys – Tick, tock. Wiress figured it out, after all."

"That's – " Finnick had started to say that was ridiculous, but he quickly realized she was right. It was an ingenious idea, he had to admit.

Sure, he'd known about the lightning tree, but not much else. Heavensbee was still a Gamemaker, and proud of his arena. He'd wanted the tributes to figure it out on their own.

Johanna wasn't buying Katniss's idea. "I think it's stupid," she snapped. "But all the same, better safe than sorry." She began helping Peeta to get Volts back in his jumpsuit.

"Tick, tock!" Nuts was awake again.

"Yes, tick, tock, the arena's a clock," soothed Katniss. Finnick turned away, disgruntled for some reason. Maybe because it was hard for him to see Katniss in this new, caring light. Or maybe because the action reminded him of how he had sometimes comforted Annie.

Nuts was eating now, as ravenously as Johanna had before. Finnick gave her the hunk of crust still left. The way she attacked it – it was like an animal. He turned away again.

Finnick became aware of Peeta supporting a struggling Volts. "Wire," said the older man, voice slurred.

"She's right here," said Peeta. Another comforting soul, damn his eyes. "Wiress is fine. She's coming too."

Volts continued to protest. "Wire."

"Oh, I know what he wants," said Johanna. She got the tin that contained the all-important wire. Finnick became aware of a moment of intense fear as he realized what might have happened had the wire been lost.

Johanna was talking about how dumb a weapon the wire was, making Volts's attachment to it seem stupid, rather than suspicious. But Peeta the genius decided to argue, saying, "He won his Games with wire. Setting up that electrical trap. It's the best weapon he could have."

And then – just to make their lives harder – Katniss jumped in with, " Seems like you'd have figured that out. Since you nicknamed him Volts and all."

Alarm bells began ringing in Finnick's head. They were getting way, way too close to the truth. But then Johanna stepped in in her characteristic, brutal way – "Yeah, that was really stupid of me, wasn't it? I guess I must have been distracted by keeping your little friends alive. While you were…what, again? Getting Mags killed off?" – and although her words hurt Finnick, he was still relieved that they had averted crisis.

Sort of. Katniss was looking daggers at Johanna, and her fingers were clenched on the hilt of her knife.

"Go ahead. Try it," said Johanna – practically begging for a fight. "I don't care if you are knocked up, I'll rip your throat out."

Right, that was really going to make her popular, both with Katniss and the sponsors. Finnick decided to intervene.

"Maybe we had all better be careful where we step." He gave Katniss one of those "shut-up" looks, hoping she would realize he wanted her both to keep her cool with Johanna and leave Volts's wire alone. At least now he knew that neither she nor Peeta knew about the plan. Not that that made his life easier.

Taking the coil, he gave it carefully to Volts. "There's your wire, Volts. Watch where you plug it."

"Where to?" asked Peeta, lifting Volts.

"I'd like to go to the Cornucopia and watch," said Finnick. He had no real desire to go there, but they had to move, and at least it was relatively natural-disaster free. "Just to make sure we're right about the clock."

One of the sand strips took them straight to the Cornucopia. Finnick would have preferred to swim, but decided solidarity was more important at this point and so trudged along with the others. The dried ointment had begun flaking. Now he, Katniss and Peeta looked like swamp monsters.

There wasn't a whole lot to do at the Cornucopia. Finnick sat on top of the golden mouth, watching Katniss and Johanna rummage through the weapons. The hot sun baked into his skin, making him feel warm and lazy.

Nuts was cleaning Volts's wire, singing. Finnick caught snatches of her song, bits of nonsense: hickory-dickory, a mouse, striking one.

"Oh, not the song again," groaned Johanna. "That went on for hours before she started tick-tocking."

Ankle-deep in water, Nuts stood like a sentinel and pointed to a section of forest. "Two," she pronounced.

"Yes, look," said Katniss. "Wiress is right. It's two o'clock and the fog is started."

Finnick didn't want to see the damn fog. He'd seen enough of it already.

"Like clockwork," said Peeta. He sounded like a teacher praising a kindergartner who'd done a good job of coloring. "You were very smart to figure that out, Wiress."

What the hell was this? Wiress was mad like Annie was, but Finnick had never, _ever_ treated Annie like a child. In fact, he'd beaten the sh-t out of anyone who'd tried that.

"Oh, she's more than smart," said Volts. "She's intuitive." Oho, so he was alive after all. "She can sense things before anyone else. Like a canary in one of your coal mines."

What the hell's a canary?

"It's a bird that we take down into the mines to warn us if there's bad air," said Katniss, in response to Finnick's spoken query.

"What's it do, die?" Typical Johanna.

"It stops singing first. That's when you should get out. But if the air's too bad, it dies, yes. And so do you." Good morbid note to end on.

Peeta was drawing a rough map of the arena. As the others tried to figure out what horror goes with what hour, Finnick closed his eyes. What he wouldn't give for a good sea breeze…this hot, moist air was stifling him. It was better here, surrounded by sun and sea and sand, than in the forest. There, he had felt like everything was closing in on him.

"Hey." He felt a finger dig into his ankle and looked down to see Johanna poking him. "Get some new weapons, instead of sitting there daydreaming." Finnick slid down the gold, landing with a soft thump in the sand. There were plenty more tridents and knives for him to play with. He selected a few at random, going for the more practical weapons as opposed to some of the showier stuff they had.

"Did you notice anything unusual in the others?" Katniss asked Johanna and Volts. They hadn't – just blood.

Something was off…Peeta was saying something, but Finnick ignored him. Frowning, he tried to find the source of the difference. It was quieter, somehow…

Nuts had stopped singing.

The Careers had appeared out of nowhere. Gloss had slit Nuts's throat, only to fall at Katniss's arrow. In the same second, Johanna sent an ax flying into Cashmere's chest. But Finnick was preoccupied with Brutus and Enobaria. Brutus had hurled his spear at Peeta. In hitting it out of the way with his trident, Finnick opened himself up to attack.

A searing pain in his thigh told him Enobaria's knife had made contact with him. Gritting his teeth, he whirled around to deal her a deathblow, only to find she and Brutus had darted around the Cornucopia and were racing down towards the jungle on one of those banks of sand.

Finnick, Katniss, Peeta and Johanna leapt forward in hot pursuit. But Finnick had barely gone two paces when the ground was yanked from under his feet and he fell on his stomach. He barely had time to realize what was going on before the ground around the Cornucopia began spinning full tilt.

A single thought rang through Finnick's mind – _Hold on!_ He dug his fingers into the sand, scrabbling desperately for a hold. And not a moment too soon, because the circle of sand was rotating so quickly now that he would have been flung into the ocean had he not held on. Sand was flying, too – Finnick closed his eyes and flattened himself against the ground, praying it would end soon –

The ground stopped rotating so suddenly that his hold was ripped loose and he tumbled a good six feet with the momentum before coming to a halt. Groaning, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His head spun, and there was sand in his mouth and ears. It made getting his bearings difficult.

Eventually (once his mouth and ears were clear and the world stopped whirling so crazily), he ascertained that Johanna, Katniss, and Peeta had managed to cling on as well. The bodies of Nuts, Gloss, and Cashmere were floating in the ocean. Brutus and Enobaria had disappeared.

"Where's Volts?" said Johanna.

He was out in the water, too. Finnick dived in, swimming a little slower than usual – he still felt unbalanced. He reached Volts, who was clutching his glasses in one hand and flailing around with the other. "All right?" he asked, slipping an arm around Volts for support.

Volts, in trying to answer, inhaled a mouthful of water. While he was busy coughing it up, Finnick began paddling them back to shore.

"Wire," choked Volts.

"What?"

Volts managed to get enough air in his lungs and enough water out for speech. "Wiress had the wire."

_Oh, sh-t._ "It's okay, I think – " Finnick looked over to where Nuts's body was floating and saw the dark shape of someone's moving towards it. "Nah, look, someone's getting it."

Volts inhaled more water on the way back, despite Finnick's best efforts to keep his head out of the drink. As they reached the sand, Peeta stepped forward to help pull Volts onto dry land. "All right, Beetee?" he asked.

Volts nodded, still coughing up water. Finnick scanned the others. "Where's Katniss?"

"Getting the wire," said Johanna. Her face looked strangely drawn.

Finnick watched detachedly as Katniss swam back to them, the hovercraft bearing Nuts's body away. Another death…he was past caring, in a way. He just felt tired of it all.

And for the hundredth time, he wished he'd never agreed to be part of this plan.

* * *

Screams. The agonized cries of a young girl. Finnick didn't understand until Katniss crashed through the undergrowth, screaming a name – Prim.

Of course. Her younger sister. Finnick remembered how Katniss had volunteered in her place, last year. How could he ever have thought the girl on fire had a heart of stone?

But she was rapidly disappearing into the jungle, and Finnick knew the last thing he should do was leave her alone. When he caught up with her, the screams had stopped and she was cleaning an arrow, looking pale.  
"Katniss?" he asked. What was going on? Had that really been her sister – and why the arrow?

"It's okay," she said, voice low. "I'm okay. I thought I heard my sister but – "

Her words were drowned in Annie's piercing scream. Finnick's blood turned to ice, and for a split second, overwhelming, mind-numbing fear froze him. _Dear God, no…_

Then he shot off as if electrified, thinking only one thing – get to Annie. If only he could reach her in time, save her before they killed her or broke her mind for good…But the thick vegetation was tripping him, the hot air making it hard for him to get enough breath. Finnick found he was sobbing breathlessly as he desperately made his way towards the cries, a single thought throbbing in his mind to match the desperate beating of his heart – _Annie, Annie, Annie…_

He came to the source of the screams, somewhere high in a great tree, but he couldn't see anything. Was she up there…? "Annie!" Finnick screamed, praying she would hear and respond. "Annie! _Annie!"_

But the horrible cries continued, cutting him like knives. Finnick kept calling her name, though it made no difference. But the all-consuming fear that possessed him made it difficult to do anything else.

Then suddenly, the screams stopped. But it only increased Finnick's fear. Had they killed her? Heart hammering and throat dry, he tried yet again to get a glimpse into the thick crown of the tree.

A bird fell at his feet. It was jet black, with a pointed crest and wicked-looking beak. As Finnick slowly bent and gingerly picked it up, a name came to his mind…jabberjay. He'd seen a picture, once. So then this was the source of the screams…he stood no chance of saving Annie.

Katniss slid down a neighboring tree, landing with a soft thump on the layer of dead leaves. "It's all right, Finnick," she said. "It's just a jabberjay. They're playing a trick on us. It's not real. It's not your…Annie."

She didn't understand. "No, it's not Annie," said Finnick, his voice heavy with despair. "But the voice was hers. Jabberjays mimic what they hear. Where did they get those screams, Katniss?" All he could think of was Annie, terrified, in pain, surrounded by towering figures in black with wicked metal instruments in their hands…The image was ghastly. Ghastly and enduring. It would not leave his mind.

"Oh, Finnick, you don't think they…" Katniss was white as a ghost as his words sank in.

"Yes. I do," he said. "That's exactly what I think."

Katniss went from white to gray, and her knees buckled. Finnick lunged forward, supporting her shoulders with his arm. "Katniss, don't faint. Katniss, can you hear me?"

Another jabberjay screamed, this time in a young man's voice. Katniss jumped up, but Finnick kept his arm around her, restraining her. "No, it's not him – " whoever "him" was. "We're getting out of here!" The continued screams frightened Finnick, in that he realized that they might not have taken Annie alone. Whose voice would he hear next, distorted in agony – Riley's? Connor's?

Katniss, wild-eyed in panic, struggled against his grip. "It's not him, Katniss! It's a mutt!" Finnick shouted, pulling her away, out of the forest that was turning into hell. "Come on!"

His words sank in, and Katniss ran with him. Finnick was barely aware of her. He kept hearing other screams, in the depths of the woods, but he couldn't tell if they were really there or it was just his imagination. _Just keep running,_ he thought desperately. _Just keep running, and we'll be out of this living hell_ –

SMACK! Finnick slammed into what seemed like thin air, falling back into the tangle of vines and leaves on the floor. The force of his impact had injured his nose; warm, wet blood flowed over his upper lip. Behind the invisible barrier, he could see Peeta, trying to communicate to Katniss, and Johanna, her expression a strange mix of pain and anger, and Volts, his face drawn with sympathy. Desperately, Finnick hurled himself against the barrier again – this time with the side of his body – but it didn't give way. He hadn't expected it to. He was stuck here, trapped, transfixed –

The screams came with the birds. Annie first, of course, and the sound of her agony dropped Finnick to the ground. He couldn't fight it, couldn't stop it, and even though he pressed his hands to his ears so hard it hurt, the sound went through him like a lancet, as if he heard it not with his ears but with every pore in his skin. On and on it went, curling him into a ball, racking him with pain…

And others, too, just as he had feared. Even over the noise of Katniss's tormentors, he could still distinguish voices – Riley, Connor, Ciara, Dalia…Jim, his best friend since grade school and his kid sister Fiona…Mari, the little old woman at the market who gave him an apple every morning…

It was hard to say how long the screams went on. The clocks might have said an hour, but to Finnick it was longer. The pain had changed. No longer was it sharp, like the stab of a knife; now the screams tore him like shards of jagged glass, scorched him like fire, froze him like ice, burned him like acid. It was worse than pain – it was beyond pain – it was…death.

At last, at long last, it stopped. But Finnick couldn't move - only lie there, shivering.

"Finnick?" Johanna's voice, gentler than he'd ever heard it, fell on his ears. A violent shudder rippled through his body and he forced his eyes open.

Johanna and Volts were bending over him, each looking concerned in their way. "I'm all right," said Finnick hoarsely. His throat was raw, his eyes stinging. "I'm all right. Just give me a second – "

Clutching Volts's arm, he hauled himself to his feet. Reflexively, he coughed, gagging. The sounds of screaming still echoed in his ears…he gagged again as Volts helped him stumble out of the jungle and onto the sand.

"Finnick?" Volts's voice, quiet with concern, reminded Finnick forcibly of Riley. But of course, that only reminded him of the screams – of Riley being tortured, somewhere in the Capitol –

Spinning away from Beetee, Finnick heaved and vomited onto the sand. Hardly anything came up – it had been so long since his last meal. He continued to cough and heave uselessly, trying to purge the horror of the last hour from his body. At last, shaking and shivering, he straightened, aware that Volts was watching him sympathetically and Johanna had turned her back on him.

"Where's Katniss and Peeta?" croaked Finnick, wiping his mouth off. He wished he had water, to rinse out his mouth, but he wasn't going back in that forest. Not a chance in hell.

"Over there," said Beetee, pointing. Finnick looked and saw that Peeta was sitting, cradling Katniss in his arms like a small child.

"No, that's what they want you to think," Peeta was saying. "The same way I wondered if Glimmer's eyes were in that mutt last year. But those weren't Glimmer's eyes. And that wasn't Prim's voice. Or if it was, they took it from an interview or something and distorted the sound. Made it say whatever she was saying."

Finnick wanted to believe him, so badly. But a small voice warned him that that was dangerous – that to fall into that temptation would be very bad indeed…

"No, they were torturing her," said Katniss dully. "She's probably dead."

"Katniss, Prim isn't dead. How could they kill Prim? We're almost down to the final eight of us. And what happens then?"

Finnick didn't see what that had to do with anything. But he wanted so badly to believe, to cling to the spark of hope he saw in Peeta's words, that he kept listening.  
"Seven more of us die," answered Katniss.

"No, back home," said Peeta. "What happens when they reach the final eight tributes in the Games?" He put his fingers under Katniss's chin, looking her in the eye. "What happens? At the final eight?"

"At the final eight?" she echoed, sounding confused. "They interview your family and friends back home?"

"That's right," answered Peeta. "They interview your family and friends. And how can they do that if they've killed them all?"

A painful internal revolution was going on inside Finnick. He barely heard Katniss's answer for the blood roaring in his ears, the pulse pounding in his throat. There was a chance…more than a chance…

Oh God, if only he knew it was true!

"Do you believe it, Finnick?" asked Katniss.

"It could be true. I don't know," he said feverishly. "Could they do that, Beetee? Take someone's regular voice and make it…" His voice died as he remembered the horrific agony of those screams.

"Oh, yes. It's not even that difficult, Finnick. Our children learn a similar technique in school," answered Volts.

He might have been exaggerating how easy it was, but he was right. Beetee's assurance sent a wave of relief through Finnick, one so poignant that his knees sagged. Annie was all right. She was safe. They hadn't gotten her.

"Of course Peeta's right," said Johanna. "The whole country adores Katniss's little sister. If they really killed her like this, they'd probably have an uprising on their hands." She was entering dangerous territory… "Don't want that, do they? Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn't want anything like that!"

Finnick stared at her, torn between admiration and fear. She could be jeopardizing everything they were doing…yet what he wouldn't give to be able to speak his mind like that.

"I'm getting water," she said shortly, and headed back into the forest. Finnick saw Katniss catch her hand, try to warn her, but Johanna shook it off, claiming there was no one the Capitol could use to hurt her. Was that true, Finnick wondered.

The ocean gleamed blue in the sunlight, enormously tempting. Finnick walked down to the beach, diving in so smoothly there was hardly a ripple. As the horror faded and the relief sank in, he became aware of a new emotion – anger. Anger at the Capitol for playing a trick like that. Despite the soothing influence of water, Finnick could feel his personality hardening, turning brittle with hatred. He wanted the damn Capitol out of his life, banished, gone. Never before had he felt so strongly against them as he did now, a loathing so strong it was like vitriol.

But it was odd, he realized. How he had never hated the Capitol like this for forcing him to become a murderer, a prostitute, for ruining Annie's mind – and yet all they had to do was play a stupid trick on him to make him abhor them from the very core of his being.

* * *

Annie was wearing pink, a beautiful silky dress with yards and yards of fabric looped around the skirt. Finnick danced happily with her, aware of the crowd of multihued penguins watching them but not particularly alarmed. He did want to kiss Annie, though – but as he bent towards her, the scene changed and the rosy glow was gone. Suddenly he was scrambling up the side of a snowy mountain, the rocks cutting his hands and feet so that a river of blood flowed from them, staining the entire side of the impossibly steep peak crimson. If he could only get to the top…Some desperate impulse drove him to keep climbing, up and up and up, even though he was deathly scared. He didn't even know why he was climbing, just that he must…or else he would die.

And then he was surrounded by monsters. If he looked directly at them, they had no discernible shape, but out of the corners of his eyes he could see them, horrid black potbellied things that danced on stubby legs and cackled and leered at him out of their wide mouths.

His terror was growing. He was scared, scared _they_ would come and find him. Not the monsters – the monsters were minions. It was _they_ he had to be careful of.

He kept climbing – and as he climbed his terror grew – and grew – and grew –

The sharp crack of lightning jerked him out of the nightmare, an involuntary cry escaping his lips. Panting, he looked around at the moonlit arena, clenching handfuls of sand to make sure that this was reality, not the dreamworld. Yes, it was reality. There was the Cornucopia. There were the sleeping forms of Johanna and Beetee. There was Katniss and Peeta, looking at him.

"I can't sleep anymore," Finnick said. Can't or won't? "One of you should rest." Another look made him realize that they were twined in each other's arms. "Or both of you. I can watch alone."

Peeta surprised him again by rejecting the proposal. "It's too dangerous," he said. "I'm not tired. You lie down, Katniss." He walked with her to where the others lay sleeping. Finnick stood, pacing, shaking his arms as if he could get rid of the nightmare influence that way. Damn it, it still felt real – like bits of dream were clinging to his brain. He wanted to swim, but something told him the too-warm touch of this ocean wouldn't help. He need the icy slap of District Four's waves to bring him back.

Crunching sounds in the sand warned him of Peeta's approach. "What's up, baker boy?" said Finnick casually.

Peeta snorted and stood next to Finnick, crossing his arms. "The usual. Just trying to keep Katniss alive."

"That might be hard," observed Finnick wryly. "Especially since she's trying to keep you alive at all costs, herself be damned."

"Do you think I don't know that?" said Peeta with unconscious bitterness. "How much harder it makes it for me?"

"Haymitch promised her he'd help keep you alive," said Finnick quietly.

But the information did not surprise Peeta. "He promised me he'd help keep her alive," he said grimly. "Haymitch makes a lot of promise. Whether he keeps them is far less certain."

Finnick wanted to ask Peeta about the baby, badly. Was Katniss really pregnant – were she and Peeta really in love? But those were the very last questions he should be asking with millions of deluded viewers and a vigilant Capitol watching.

"Hey, what's going on?" said Peeta suddenly.

"What?" Finnick froze, staring at him.

"I'm not stupid, you know," said Peeta. "Something's up. Some plot, something. What is it?"

Be careful, Finnick…be very, very careful in what you say…

"If there were," he said slowly, "do you think I would tell you?"

"No," said Peeta, defeated. "I guess not."

Finnick was disappointed, almost. Would Peeta really give up that easily? Or was he faking, trying to lull Finnick into a false sense of security?

"I hate this!" burst out Peeta. "I really, really hate this! How only one of us can live…"

"Yeah," said Finnick grimly. "It sucks."

Peeta sighed and kicked the sand, sending a pale plume skittering over the water. "Sometimes I wish someone would just blow the Capitol to bits so we could all live in peace."

Finnick's jaw didn't drop, but damn, it was a close thing. Peeta had played the soppy lover boy part so well, Finnick hadn't even guessed he had a bitter, darker side. Or maybe the lover boy role was true, and this was the acting? Maybe neither was false, neither true – Peeta acted kind when around Katniss, because he loved her, but when he was with Finnick he became bitter and full of angst too…

Maybe there was no such thing as personality. Maybe people were just mirrors, reflecting those around them.

* * *

Finnick watched in satisfaction as the handfuls of sand scoured off bits of flaky green ointment and dead skin. Sure it stung, but at least he didn't look like he was decomposing anymore.

"I don't know," said Peeta, looking down at his new skin. Of the three, he was the fairest, and his skin was a glowing baby pink. "I feel like we'll burn really easily."

"Let's just put more medicine on," said Katniss practically. "It ought to work as sunscreen, no problem."

Finnick made a face, only half in jest. But the ointment, applied to smooth skin, didn't have nearly the same grotesque effect: jungle spirit rather than swamp monster.

"Hey kids, come back!" called Beetee from the beach. "I think I have a plan."

It starts…now. Finnick trudged up the beach, all humor gone. Day Three was tomorrow. Everything had to be put in place today.

"I think we'll all agree our next job is to kill Brutus and Enobaria," said Beetee as they sat around him in a loose semicircle. "I doubt they'll attack us openly again, now that they're so outnumbered. We could track them down, I suppose, but it's dangerous, exhausting work."

"Do you think they've figured out about the clock?" said Katniss.

"If they haven't, they'll figure it out soon enough. Perhaps not as specifically as we have…" Finnick tuned out as Beetee hypothesized what Brutus and Enobaria might be thinking. Belatedly, he realized Johanna was still asleep.

"Wait, let me get Johanna up," he said, once Beetee was finished. "She'll be rabid if the thinks she missed something this important."

Katniss said something under her breath, but Finnick ignored her. Walking over to Johanna, he prodded her - none too gently – with his toe. "Hey. Wake up."

She did, groaning, scrubbing her short hair to get sand out of it. "This better be good, pretty boy."

"It is." Finnick's tone was serious enough that she stopped b-tching and looked up at him. "Beetee's come up with a plan."

He could see from her eyes that she understood what he meant. Without further complaints, she stood and walked back with him to where Beetee sat, an open space in front of him. Finnick settled himself next to Peeta, Johanna on his other side. Crossing his legs, he watched as Beetee sketched out the arena, divided into its twelve sectors.

"If you were Brutus and Enobaria, knowing what you do about the jungle, where would you feel safest?" he asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.

All this was bullsh-t, of course. The point of the plan wasn't to get the tributes from District Two, it was to blow open the forcefield so someone – Haymitch hadn't specified who – could get them out. But it had to be presented like this, for the benefit of the viewers, the Capitol, and Katniss and Peeta themselves.

"Where we are now. On the beach," said Peeta, in response to Beetee's question. "It's the safest place."

"So why aren't they on the beach?"

"Because we're here," snapped Johanna. She never could wait. If it were Johanna, the trap would have been set on Day One.

"Exactly. We're here, claiming the beach," said Beetee, ignoring her tone. "Now where would you go?"

Katniss's brow wrinkled as she thought. "I'd hide just at the edge of the jungle. So I could escape if an attack came. And so I could spy on us."

"Also to eat," said Finnick, adding his spiel to the charade. "The jungle's full of strange creatures and plants. But by watching us, I'd know the seafood's safe."

Beetee smiled, though it was a little tight to be genuine. "Yes, good. You do see. Now here's what I propose: a twelve o'clock strike. What happens exactly at noon and at midnight?"

Finnick honestly tried to keep up as Beetee explained the mechanics of what they were attempting to do, but he couldn't. Even if Finnick had been smart – which he wasn't – then he still wouldn't have been able to keep up with a genius like Beetee. Beetee was the brains behind the whole rebel plan. There was no way Haymitch or Heavensbee could ever have thought something like this up.

"Don't worry about the wire," Beetee was saying. "It will do just what I say."

Finnick, struck by a sudden thought, asked, "And where will we be when this happens?"

"Far enough up in the jungle to be safe," answered Beetee.

"The Careers will be safe, too, then," said Katniss, helpfully pointing out a major hole in their cover story, "unless they're in the vicinity of the water."

Beetee was smart, but not a fast thinker. "That's right," he said.

Thankfully, Peeta saved them – albeit with another stupid comment. "But all the seafood will be cooked."

"Probably more than cooked," said Beetee. "We will most likely be eliminating that as a food source for good. But you found other edible things in the jungle, right, Katniss?"

"Yes. Nuts and rats." Sounded absodamnlutely delicious. "And we have sponsors."

"Well, then. I don't see that as a problem," said Beetee. "But as we are allies and this will require all our efforts, the decision of whether or not to attempt it is up to you four."

Finnick watched Katniss, waiting. The success of their plan hinged on her, on this crucial moment of decision. If she didn't want to go through with it…then they were f—ked.

"Why not?" she said. Finnick hid a sigh of relief. "If it fails, there's no harm done. If it works, there's a decent chance we'll kill them. And even if we don't and just kill the seafood, Brutus and Enobaria lose it as a food source, too."

"I say we try it," said Peeta – as if he would ever go against Katniss. "Katniss is right."

Finnick looked over to Johanna. She was chewing her lip, thinking the same thoughts he was. If they backed out…the plot might fail. It might not. Hopefully, the Capitol would see they had nothing to do with it and would leave them alone. If they went through with it – they were risking rebellion, capture, torture and war.

She turned her head to look at him, and he raised his eyebrows. This was the crucial moment for them, too…

"All right," she said. "It's better than hunting them down in the jungle, anyway. And I doubt they'll figure out our plan, since we can barely understand it ourselves."


	5. So It Goes

Finnick watched nervously as Katniss and Johanna disappeared into the forest, unrolling the spool of wire as they went. Actually, nervously was an understatement; his nerves were stretched as taut as the wire itself.

"Now, remember," said Beetee, pushing his glasses up his nose, "the main thing is to stay calm. Just keep a cool head."

Peeta grunted and nodded. His nerves manifested themselves in that he had shut up tight as a clam and was just standing there, arms folded. Finnick, on the other hand, couldn't keep still. He began pacing restlessly in a tight circle, tracing the path his feet made over and over and over –

"Cut that out, will you?" snapped Peeta. "You're driving me crazy!"

"All right!" Finnick shot back. But even when he forced himself to stand in one spot, he still couldn't be motionless – his fingers began drumming restlessly on his thighs, tapping out an endless rhythm…

"I said STOP!" shouted Peeta, actually reaching over to grab Finnick's fingers. Finnick slapped his hand away, lips pulled back over his teeth. Peeta probably would have punched him if Beetee hadn't thrown himself between them.

"Stop!" he gasped. Finnick and Peeta continued to glare at each other. Beetee put a hand on each of their chests, trying to push them apart. "Have you forgotten who the enemy is?"

Peeta's expression flickered in surprise before it switched back to sullen agreement and he stomped back to stand next to the tree. Finnick considered pacing again, just to piss him off, but decided against it. He had to move, though, or go mad…

"How long do you think it will take them to get to the water and back?" asked Peeta tersely.

Beetee considered. "Probably about thirty minutes."

"How long do you think it's been since they left?"

"No more than ten minutes."

Peeta blew out a breath, his fingers tapping restlessly against his arms. In the tense silence, the hot, moist air was more oppressive than ever. Beetee sat down on a tree root, wincing – his stab wound still obviously hurt. As the quiet continued, Finnick began pacing again.

"How much longer now?" demanded Peeta suddenly.

"It's been less than five minutes," said Beetee patiently. "Just wait."

More silence.

"How much longer now?"

"_Peeta!"_ growled Finnick, ready to choke him. But the insect clicking started up next door, and Finnick's immediate instinct was to freeze, as if the bugs would jump out and strip the flesh off his bones in seconds.

"That's the insects," said Peeta, nerves evident in his voice. "That means it's eleven. Shouldn't they be back by now?"

"We're fine," said Beetee firmly. "Peeta, you need to relax, or we'll never pull this off. You too, Finnick."

Nice. Telling him to relax, all the while knowing that if this didn't work they would probably be executed in some horrific manner (after being tortured and interrogated, of course). Relax? Sure. Just trust their future to a thin wire and a ripply patch in a forcefield…totally cool.

Why the _hell_ had Finnick ever signed up for this stupid plan?  
"How much longer _now?_"

"Peeta! I swear to God I'll – "

"Look!"

Both of them turned automatically at Beetee's sharp command. At first, Finnick couldn't understand what was wrong. Then he saw that the golden wire, formerly taught and stretched, now lay on the ground in slack coils.

Finnick's blood literally ran cold at the sight. He couldn't move…his nerves couldn't take much more…

Someone shoved him hard from behind, and he stumbled forward. Spinning around, he saw Peeta, face red under the green warpaint.

"What did you do?" he screamed, apparently having lost all control.

"I don't know!" Finnick shouted back, not much better off himself.

"What's going on?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

"Stop!" snapped Beetee. "Another tribute has cut the wire, probably a Career. Now – "

"A Career?" Peeta was so stressed his voice broke. "What if – "

"SHUT UP!" shouted Beetee. Finnick and Peeta froze, staring at him. "If there's a Career nearby, do you want him or her hearing us?" Without waiting for them to answer, he continued issuing orders in a clipped voice. "Finnick, you can run the fastest of any of us. Go get Katniss and Johanna and bring them back. If you meet Brutus or Enobaria, take them out!"

"Right!" Finnick was about to bound off when he stopped in his tracks, arrested by a sudden thought. "Beetee…should we take out the tracker?"

His and Beetee's eyes met, judging the desperation of the situation, the possible effects.

"Yes!" said Beetee. "Come here."

Finnick jumped to his side, ignoring Peeta's cry of "What are you doing?" Beetee took a small knife from his belt and with neat, surgical strokes cut the tracker out of Finnick's arm. In less than half a minute it was out and the wound was bound with moss.

"Go!" shouted Beetee, slapping him on the back, and Finnick was off, running through the forest at a speed he'd never thought possible. He followed Katniss and Johanna's trail, long legs hurtling him over tangled vines and shrubs, his heart pounding, his lungs pumping, the adrenaline coursing through his veins like mad. He knew he was making a hell of a lot of noise, crashing through the undergrowth like this, but speed was more important, and at any rate the bugs were so loud no one could probably hear him anyway. "Katniss!" he yelled, with the little air left in his lungs. "Johanna!" He was flying through the forest, going so quickly he nearly didn't see the pool of red on the ground –

Finnick skidded to a stop, horrified. There was the spool and other end of Beetee's wire, half-hidden under a tangle of vines and leaves that were dyed crimson with blood. "Johanna! Katniss!" he shouted, but no one answered. He could see another path someone had blazed through the undergrowth and rushed down it in desperation, thinking. _Please, God, don't let her be dead…_

He nearly crashed into Johanna, stopping so suddenly he tripped over his feet and almost fell against her anyway. Johanna whipped around before he had recovered his balance, her eyes wide and her front sprayed with blood.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

"How should I know?" gasped Finnick. "What's all that blood?"

"Someone cut the wire – "

"I know!" shouted Finnick. "Where's Katniss?"

"She's back with the wire," gabbled Johanna. "I knocked her out and cut the tracker out, and then I ran off so Brutus and Enobaria would follow – "

"You _left_ her?" screamed Finnick. His nerves were at a breaking point –

"I had too!" shouted Johanna. "The Careers were coming, what else could I bloody – "

Finnick shoved her to the ground and ran off again, ignoring her pleas for him to come back. How could she…how – bloody – could – she –

Something darted past Finnick in the darkness, a bat or large bird. The shock of fear was like a jolt of electricity; it pushed him to go even faster, to run so hard his lungs and legs were on fire and he feared his heart might burst.

"Katniss!" called Peeta, from somewhere in the forest. "Katniss!"

"Peeta!" she screamed back, clearly desperate. "Peeta! I'm here!" Finnick forced himself to run faster, faster, faster, willing himself to get there before any of the others did, his breath coming in great gasps, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, his pulse throbbing in his temples and wounded arm –

Another shadow darted in front of him, but this time it was a human figure. Still running, the figure looked back, and Finnick caught the gleam of light on gilded, bared teeth. Enobaria.

She practically shrieked at him, and put on a burst of speed. Suddenly, the hunter burst into life inside Finnick, his second wind kicking in. With an animal cry of his own, he raced after Enobaria, feeling the exhilaration of a predator chasing its prey as they raced through the forest, shadows sliding over their skin and vines and twigs whipping their faces –

Enobaria burst into the clearing around the lightning tree. It was clearly that one – gold wire gleamed around the massive trunk – but Peeta and Beetee were gone. The savage hunter inside of Finnick barely cared. All he wanted was to take down the muscled form of Enobaria in front of him – despite the fact he had no weapons –

Two feet away from the force field, Enobaria skidded to a halt. Finnick's momentum rocketed him past her, but he spun around on the spot, ready to leap, ready to strike –

Enobaria hissed at him –

And then the world exploded into a blue so bright it blinded Finnick. An electric crackling ran through the air, the entire forcefield blazing. The force of the following explosions hurled him to the ground so violently his head slammed into a rock. For a split second, Finnick saw stars and a dazzling array of colors…

Then everything turned black, and he knew no more.

* * *

Finnick groaned, his eyelids flickering. His head hurt…hurt like hell…

"Finnick?"

Whoever it was, their voice reverberated through Finnick's skull horribly. His head was spinning, and he felt a little nauseous, too…if he hadn't known better, he'd have thought he was hungover.

"Can you hear me, Finnick?"

Finnick ignored the voice, struggling to remember where he was and how he had gotten here. Lightning…shadows…blood on the ground…danger, danger everywhere…

"Annie!" he exclaimed, and would have jerked upright were it not for the restraining hand on his shoulder and the awful swirling dizziness in his head.

"She's fine, Finnick," said the voice, and he finally identified it as that of Plutarch Heavensbee. "She's absolutely safe."

"Sure?" demanded Finnick, eyeing the Gamemaker warily. He looked older, tired somehow. Certainly he wasn't as cheerful as he had been in the Capitol. "You're positive she's safe?"

"Finnick, I swore I'd do everything in my power to protect her," said Heavensbee.

"Then why isn't she here?" he shot back, sure that if Annie was wherever "here" was at all, she'd be inseparable from him.

"She's still in District Four," answered Heavensbee. Was he really not meeting Finnick's eyes, or was Finnick imagining things? "To get her would attract too much attention to us…but I swear, we'll pick her up at the first possible moment," he added, quailing under Finnick's glare.

"Fine." Finnick acquiesced, sighing. For the first time, he looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was lying in a bed in what looked like a typical hospital ward, with two rows of half a dozen beds each arranged to face each other across a center aisle. Heavensbee was seated in a plastic chair next to him. About two beds down and across the aisle, he saw Beetee. He was clearly in critical condition. The number of contraptions keeping him alive couldn't mean anything else.

And two beds down to his right…Finnick turned his head and saw Katniss. She was unconscious, tubes hooked into her left arm, her hands tied to the table. Her forehead was bruised and her breathing irregular. Beneath her eyelids, her eyes wandered restlessly.

"What – what happened?" said Finnick hoarsely. Seeing all the medical stuff made him conscious of the tubing coming out of his own arm. "Where's the others?"

Heavensbee sighed. "I'm afraid that after you left Peeta and Beetee, Peeta panicked. He seemed to think he and Katniss were victims of some Career plot involving you, Beetee, and Johanna…so before Beetee could cut his tracker out, he hit Beetee on the head and ran to find Katniss. Along the way, however, he ran into Brutus. They fought…Peeta killed Brutus."

"Oh." Finnick felt some regret for Brutus's death, but not a whole lot. "And then what?"

His large hands folded, Heavensbee sighed again. "Then Katniss blew the forcefield. Thankfully, she was able to understand what needed to be done, even with Beetee unconscious and her own injuries. We came in with the hovercraft as quickly as possible, but the three of you were closer, and…well, the long and short of it is that the Capitol has Enobaria, Johanna, and Peeta as prisoners."

It was funny, really, how you never realized how much you cared about someone until they were in real danger. Finnick had never liked Johanna, and he'd always thought Peeta a bit of an idiot, but now that they were in the Capitol's clutches, he was worried about them. More than worried. Finnick was seriously scared.

"Can I – am I well enough to get up?" His head was still hurting, but it was reduced to a dull throb, and he didn't feel nearly as dizzy. Now that the nausea was subsiding, he was ravenously hungry.

"I don't know," said Heavensbee. "Let's see what Dr. Ward thinks."

Dr. Ward turned out to be a tall, graying woman in her mid-forties, and a competent doctor. Although she gave Finnick a long, sharp look from behind her glasses (not at all fooled when he lied and said his head didn't hurt), she gave him permission to leave the hospital ward, telling him to contact her immediately if she started feeling dizzy again, experiencing blackouts, seeing lights, etc., etc. She and Heavensbee then left, leaving Finnick to dress himself in dark gray jeans and a longsleeved gray shirt. He avoided looking at either Beetee or Katniss. Their stillness frightened him, even if – or maybe because – they were alive.

Heavensbee was waiting for him outside the door. "I bet you're hungry," he said.

"Starving," replied Finnick.

"I'm not surprised," said Heavensbee. "Your last meal was over a day ago."

"I've been out a whole day? Damn."

The hallway led to a room with a table and windows. Finnick realized the window wall was curved and that they were far above the ground. "We're in a hovercraft?

"Now what gave you that impression?" said Haymitch sarcastically, striding in from another door. He looked a little haggard, too. "Yes, we're in a hovercraft."

"Going where?" asked Finnick, seating himself at the table. The smells coming from the food – tomato soup, rolls, roast chicken and rice with almonds and raisins in it – made his stomach snarl painfully.

There was the slightest pause as Haymitch and Heavensbee exchanged glances. "District Thirteen," said Haymitch.

Finnick choked on his roll. "Thirteen?" he gasped, between coughs. Heavensbee thumped him helpfully on the back.

"Thirteen," confirmed Haymitch, over the sounds of Finnick expelling bits of bread from his windpipe. "You can see why you weren't told this before."

"But Thirteen's _dead_," exclaimed Finnick. "There's nothing left! They blew it up!"

" 'They' left quite a lot of Thirteen underground," said Haymitch dryly. "Thirteen has built itself up over the past seventy-five years and now has military technology to rival the Capitol."

Finnick stared at Haymitch. "And no one knows?"

"No one. Well, a select few," he amended. "Like us."

"Right," said Finnick, with his mouth full, and turned his full attention to eating. Sure, Thirteen still being alive was a shock, but less important at the moment than getting something in his stomach.

Haymitch was looking from Finnick to Heavensbee with one eyebrow raised sardonically. "So you haven't told him then?"

"Told me what?" said Finnick absentmindedly through a mouthful of chicken and rice.

Heavensbee did not respond. Nor did he meet Finnick's eyes.

Finnick swallowed. "Told me what?" he demanded.

Looking down, Heavensbee fiddled nervously with a fork. Haymitch smirked, enjoying the Gamemaker's discomfiture.

"_What?_" demanded Finnick. "Plutarch – "

Heavensbee flushed an uncomfortable red. He still would not look Finnick in the eyes.

Haymitch turned to Finnick with a strange sort of bitter smugness. "What did he tell you about your dearly beloved?"

Finnick went cold. "He said – he said she was safe in District Four," he said through a dry mouth.

"In District Four, sure, but hardly safe. Didn't he tell you the districts are rebelling? Four is just one big violent mess."

His extremities numb, Finnick stared at the red-faced Heavensbee. "No. He didn't tell me."

"Well, that's how it is. Right now it's a free-for-all between the Peacekeepers and rebels. Innocent citizens have been caught in the crossfire already."

An angry shiver ran down Finnick's spine. He couldn't see his own expression, but it must have daunted Heavensbee, because he shrank back in his chair with his palms facing Finnick.

"It's not that bad," he stammered. "I swear, Finnick, if she were in real danger I would have told you…Your friends are doing everything they can to protect her. She even has a guard, I think your father is on it."

Finnick glared at him, his anger rising. Did he honestly think that would reassure him? That he would be _glad_ to hear Riley, as well as Annie, was at risk?

"You – stupid – fat – man," he bit off. "Do you call that 'doing everything in your power' to protect her? You left Annie in the middle of a f—king _rebellion!"_

"I had no choice!" snapped Heavensbee, his face flushed with anger now. "Do you have any idea what you're talking about? How careful I have to be? Getting away with this under the nose of President Snow was a miracle! We're lucky to be alive at all, and you're lucky Annie's still relatively free! If it weren't for _me – _" he jabbed himself in the chest with his finger " – she'd be at the Capitol right now! And you call _me_ stupid! You ignorant little boy!"

Finnick's cheeks burned and he dropped his head, his anger fading (though he reserved some for Haymitch, who had the gall to snigger at him). "All right," he said. "Then how soon do you think we can get her?"

Heavensbee, breathing hard from his little rant, leaned back in his chair. "I'm not sure," he said meditatively, his ire waning as quickly as Finnick's. "A month, at least."

"A _month?_" Finnick's heart sank – he'd thought a week, at most. And with the anger gone, there was room for a very different emotion to flood his heart – despair. "It'll take that long?" he croaked.  
Heavensbee spread his palms out in a gesture of apology. "That's the way it has to be."

Sighing, Finnick dropped his face into his hands, trying to come to terms with the facts. Annie, in the midst of a violent rebellion for over a month…he wasn't sure if he could stand the thought.

"Could you at least take me to see her?" he asked hoarsely, though without much hope of a positive answer. Heavensbee shook his head.

"No, I'm sorry. There's no way I can get you to Four. But I've given special orders for her retrieval if possible. It's the best I can do, Finnick."

The best wouldn't be good enough. Finnick could see it now – the Peacekeeper army storming through the city, merciless in their black and gray, gunning down Annie's informal guard, setting fire to the victors' mansions…

"I can't live like this," he groaned, letting his head fall onto his arms. "I won't."

"Don't be stupid," said Haymitch. "That's the worst thing you could do. Get her killed for sure. As long as _you're _alive, they'll keep _her_ alive for bait."

Right, that was real comforting. Before Finnick could correct Haymitch's misinterpretation – apparently he thought he was suicidal – the doors slammed open to reveal a wild-eyed Katniss, standing there in her hospital gown and clutching an empty syringe.

"Done knocking yourself out, sweetheart?" said Haymitch irritably. She took an unsteady step forward and would have fallen had not Haymitch darted out of his seat and caught her wrists. "So it's you and a syringe against the Capitol?" he said, ignoring her blank look. "See, this is why no one lets you make the plans. Drop it." His left hand tightened around her wrist until her fingers jerked open and the syringe clattered to the floor.

As Haymitch seated Katniss next to Finnick and Heavensbee handed her food and utensils, Finnick got a good look at her. She didn't look _that_ bad – face somewhat bruised, hair a little tangled – until you looked at the eyes. They looked panicked, frightened, dazed…absolutely desperate. It frightened Finnick, and he realized why. That was how Annie had looked right after her Games. It was _that_ look, transported onto Katniss's face. He shivered.

Finnick watched her nervously as Haymitch told her about the plot. Had she gone mad? He couldn't tell…for all his experience with Annie, he had no way to recognize the symptoms in another. She might just be in shock from recent events and the weight of all this new information…

"You didn't tell me," she rasped.

"Neither you nor Peeta were told," said Heavensbee. "We couldn't risk it. I was even worried you might mention my indiscretion with the watch during the Games. Of course, when I showed you this, I was merely tipping you off about the arena. As a mentor. I thought it might be a first step toward gaining your trust. I never dreamed you'd be a tribute again." As he was speaking, he had taken out a pocket watch and stroked it once with his thumb, causing crystals on its face to light up in a pattern Finnick couldn't decipher in those brief seconds. Obviously, though, it had some significance for Katniss, because her eyebrows met momentarily.

"I still don't understand why Peeta and I weren't let in on the plan," she said. She sounded frustrated, but not unbalanced. Finnick let out a cautious sigh of relief.

"Because once the force field blew, you'd be the first ones they'd try to capture, and the less you knew, the better," answered Haymitch..

"The first ones? Why?"

Did she really have no idea? "For the same reason the rest of us agreed to die to keep you alive," said Finnick, trailing his spoon through his bowl of soup.

"No, Johanna tried to kill me."

"Johanna knocked you out to cut the tracker from your arm and lead Brutus and Enobaria away from you," said Haymitch. Privately, Finnick thought Johanna had chickened out, but that probably wasn't the best thing to tell Katniss.

"What?" Looking up, Finnick saw her face was screwed up in confusion. "I don't know what you're – "

"We had to save you because you're the mockingjay, Katniss," cut in Heavensbee. He spoke slowly, emphatically, willing her to understand every word. "While you live, the revolution lives."

Finnick watched her face. First she was shocked. Then, slowly, the surprise faded into unwilling belief as events clicked together in her mind. And then, as her eyes turned to Haymitch, the belief sank into despair.

"Peeta," she whispered.

"The others kept Peeta alive because if he died, we knew there'd be no keeping you in an alliance. And we couldn't risk leaving you unprotected," said Haymitch. Despite his unimpassioned delivery, his face paled slightly.

"Where is Peeta?" hissed Katniss, with a venom to rival Johanna. Finnick suddenly realized he had a very good reason to be afraid of her reaction when she found her quasi-lover was the Capitol's prisoner…

"He was picked up by the Capitol along with Johanna and Enobaria," said Haymitch. Just like Heavensbee earlier with Finnick, he couldn't meet Katniss's eyes.

There was a split second of silence as Katniss digested this information. Then she launched herself across the table at Haymitch, fingers arched like claws. By the time Finnick had jumped up and grabbed her around the waist she had already scratched long bloody lines down Haymitch's face. She and Haymitch were both screaming and cursing at each other, Haymitch with one hand clamped on his damaged eye, Katniss resisting Finnick's grasp furiously as he tried to pull her away.

Two attendants – medical or military, Finnick wasn't sure, their pale gray uniforms were singularly nondescript – came rushing forward to restrain her. Finnick stepped away, feeling slightly sick as he watched them pin Katniss to the table and tie her hands behind her back. Even if she was mad…this wasn't a way to treat a person.

Then she started banging her head on the table, forcing one of the attendants to tranquilize her with a syringe. But it didn't knock her out, just sapped her strength so that all she could do was emit this bone-chilling, high-pitched howl that ululated and cracked like the voice of a lost ghost. Finnick hugged his arms around himself, shivering, as the attendants carried her out and Haymitch was escorted to the medical bay by another gray-clad aide. Even when the metal doors shut behind them, he could still faintly hear Katniss wailing.

Heavensbee let out a long, shaky breath. His skin was the color of vanilla pudding. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Finnick," he said in a rough voice.

Finnick rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to bring some warmth back to his skin. Katniss's eerie keen had raised goosebumps on his skin. Was that what the damned sounded like?

"We'll get them back," said Heavensbee heavily. His hands lay limp on his lap, his eyes stared straight ahead, and he seemed utterly dejected. "Already, rescue plans are being made…but it won't be easy. Not easy at all."

"You better rescue Peeta," replied Finnick. "If you want Katniss sane."

Heavensbee flashed him a startled look. "Do you – do you really think – ?"

"I don't know," said Finnick. "But it…it seems likely."

"Just what we need," groaned Heavensbee, covering his face with his hands. Finnick slipped out of the room, going back down the hallway. At the door, he hesitated. All was silent now, which meant Katniss was either calm – or unconscious. He badly wanted to go in, offer sympathy – he was only too conscious, too empathetic of the pain she was feeling – but at the same time scared of what he might find.

Feeling apprehensive, he pushed the shining metal doors ajar and peeked through the crack. Beetee was still there, hooked up to his machines. And opposite him…Katniss. Lying flat on her back, hooked back to tubes and as still as before.

Finnick stole into the room, slipping to the bed beside her. Her eyes were closed, but she looked too tense to be asleep or unconscious.

"Katniss. Katniss, I'm sorry," he said in a low voice. The sympathy and pain that leaked into his words were unfeigned. "I wanted to go back for him and Johanna, but I couldn't move."

So that wasn't exactly the case. Did it matter? It all came out to the same thing, anyway…

Katniss didn't respond. Finnick tried again. "It's better for him than Johanna. They'll figure out he doesn't know anything pretty fast. And they won't kill him if they think they can use him against you." Cold comfort, he knew, but what else could he say?

"Like bait?" said Katniss. Her eyes were open now, but she was staring upwards, fists tight, face set in rigid lines. "Like how they'll use Annie for bait, Finnick?"

She didn't know, would never know, how much pain there was in that one statement. It hit Finnick in the chest like a hammer blow. His heart spasmed and he bent over, clutching it…_Ah, God…Annie…_

The painful, racking sobs were back. He knew Katniss could hear him, but didn't care. She probably didn't care, either…didn't give a damn about him or Annie…

"I wish she was dead," Finnick burst out in despair and pain. "I wish they were all dead, and we were, too. It would be best."

Would it? Would it really? For a moment, Finnick experienced a longing so powerful for death it was nearly irresistible. To not have to feel pain, to not have to suffer, to simply lie there and drink oblivion for the rest of eternity…what better fate could there be? In his head, he heard the words of a poet, a few fragments of his work that had escaped from the long-ago times before the Hunger Games…_To die, to sleep – no more._

Finnick took a deep, shuddering breath. Katniss's eyes were closed again. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Finnick rose and left the room. No more. One way or another, he would get himself and Annie out of this never-ending nightmare.

No more.

* * *

They were one, maybe two days away from District Thirteen. For security reasons, they'd had to circumnavigate nearly all of Panem. Finnick didn't mind. He'd seen some incredible scenery out of the hovercraft windows. And it was nice to get a few days to relax and recover before they officially joined the rebel movement.

Well, relax in theory.

Though he didn't have to do anything more strenuous than be polite to Haymitch, Finnick was still stressed. Because although he wasn't in danger, there were plenty of other people to worry about. Annie, of course. Not until she was safely in his arms would he_ ever_ stop worrying about her. And Riley. Finnick knew his father would be one of the first to grab a gun and fight – not out of bloodlust but what he felt would be his duty. The chances of him getting killed were far too high for Finnick's liking. Then there were all his friends in District Four, who were caught in the same mess. And others, too – Peeta and Johanna, enduring God-knows-what in the Capitol's torture chambers. Connor and Dalia, who for all he knew could be prisoners too. Beetee, whose recovery was worryingly slow. And Katniss, who seemed to be drifting in some hazy, self-induced coma.

Yes, there were a great deal of people for Finnick to worry about.

His favorite room on the hovercraft was probably the observation deck. It wasn't so much a deck as a circular room with a low, sloping roof, stuck on back of the ship proper. Three of its curved walls were entirely windows. The fourth had padded seats.

Finnick was stretched out on one of these seats, staring up at the ceiling. The metal tile was dotted with hundreds of little holes. As Finnick lay there, he'd started counting them a dozen times, only to drift off in a sort of half-sleep. Then he'd jerked awake, started counting after a few minutes, and fallen asleep again…

Finnick was awake when the metal door slid open. He didn't bother to sit up, expecting probably Haymitch or Heavensbee, and he didn't feel like talking to either at the moment.

"Finnick?" The quiet voice with the distinctive District Four lilt was neither Haymitch's nor Heavensbee's. It was Connor.

"Connor!" Finnick jumped up, blood draining from his face in surprise. "How are you? How's Dalia? Do you know what's going on? Have you been to Four? How'd – "

"Easy, easy," said Connor, catching Finnick's arms to steady him, eyes crinkling as he smiled. "Don't go falling over, now."

Finnick regained his balance, laughing a little. "I'm all right," he said. Connor's eyes were searching his face, as if he didn't believe him. "No, seriously, I am. I mean, I'm about crazy with worry about Annie and everyone, but physically - "

Connor's face paled, and the momentary happiness and relief that had flared in his eyes died. "Finnick…" he said slowly.

It was Finnick's turn to grow pale. "What?" he asked numbly. "Connor, what's happened?"

Connor took a deep breath. His eyes – deep cerulean – met Finnick's gravely. "I have bad news, Finnick," he said slowly. "Well…bad news and worse news."

Finnick swallowed, his throat dry. His heart was pounding, his palms slick with sweat. Scared…yes, he was scared. "Tell me the bad news," he said, managing to keep his voice steady.

"Finnick…"

"Tell me, Connor!"

His mentor hesitated for a moment more, eyebrows pulled up worriedly. Then he sighed in defeat and said, "Last night, the Capitol took Annie prisoner."

No.

Oh, no...

Finnick felt icy-cold all over. His hands, feet, and face numb, he became aware of a roaring in his ears and a blackness over his eyes…

"Finnick!" Connor caught him as he staggered. Finnick was barely aware of his supporting arm around his shoulders as he guided Finnick back to the seats. "Finnick, are you all right?"

"M'okay," mumbled Finnick, slumping over so his head was resting on his knees. Slowly, he took deep breaths, waiting for the faintness to recede. The trembling, however, did not…

As he sat back up, he became aware that Connor was watching him worriedly. "How did it happen?" asked Finnick hoarsely. He was sure his face was white - unless it was gray.

Connor's face settled into grave lines. "They just…came. I was back in Four, with Dalia and the kids…I saw them, a whole squad, march up to the house. It was dark, you could hardly see anything, but we knew they'd got her because you could hear her screaming all the way to the airship…"

He swallowed hard. Finnick closed his eyes, leaning back against the seat and clenching his fists. Dear God, no…His entire soul rebelled against the idea of Annie being their captive, of their rough, gloved hands grasping her, bruising her translucent skin, indifferent to her screams for help and cries for pity…

"No," he choked. Opening his burning eyes, he turned to Connor. "No. They can't – we can't let them. We've got to get her back!"

"They're trying already," said Connor. "There's already the beginnings of a rescue effort for Peeta and Johanna – they'll get her, too."

"They have to," breathed Finnick. "They must…Oh God, she won't last two weeks in their hands!" he burst out desperately.

Connor's hand closed comfortingly on his shoulder, hard and rough. Finnick tilted his head back, willing the bitter tears to disappear from his eyes. "Tell me the worse news," he said hoarsely.

Connor's only response was a slight intake of breath. Tilting his head, Finnick opened his eyes to look at him. "Connor," he said in a low voice. "I need to know. After all – " and he laughed harshly " – not much can be worse than what you just told me…"

"I don't know," whispered Connor. "There's only so much a man can take…"

Finnick's jaw set grimly. "Then we'll see how much I can," he said. "What is it?"

Connor took a deep breath. "You know Annie had a guard," he said in a low voice. "Your father was on it…Well, the Peacekeepers came, but they weren't very peaceful, and…" He took a deep breath. "Your father is dead."

Riley.

Dad.

Daddy.

Dada…

A horrible, burning pain was twisting inside of Finnick. It reached out tendrils, snaring his arms, his legs, his head, until he was all bent over, constricted by agony, his arms wrapped around himself, hands clutching his sides, face contorted with hot tears leaking from his screwed-up eyes…

"Finnick?" Connor made to grasp his shoulder again, but at his touch Finnick leapt away with a wild cry and dashed for the windows, hardly knowing what he intended…

"Finnick!" Alarmed, Connor jumped after him, grabbing his arm. Finnick's knees buckled and he fell to the ground, tearing sobs forcing their way out of his lungs. It hurt…it hurt…he dug his nails into his arms until the skin tore, preferring the physical pain to the deeper hurt inside him…

Connor was right. There was only so much a man could take. And was this – father dead, beloved abducted and tortured, friends in danger of either fate – not enough to do it? There was nowhere, no stronghold, no safe place for his mind to go. Everything hurt. Everything was _wrong, _mutilated, torn into horrible little shreds and pieces...

And then it all fell apart.


	6. Interlude

_take anymore, i really can't, dear god, make it stop, just end it, end it now or i'll go mad, i _

The great thing about time is that you can't skip it. You have to live every second of your life, every single second. It's both a blessing and a curse.

For example, it would be a blessing if you were happy. If you and your loved one were together – in a field of flowers perhaps – and her arms were around you and her lips were on yours then you would treasure every second like a precious jewel, locking it up in some little box in your memory.

But if your love was stolen from you and all hope lost and everything you held dear was ripped from you in an agony of blood and smoke and death –

_will, i know i will, unless you do something or something happens, i feel like everything's just crushing in on me and i can't breathe, like there's no space in my head, like someone crushed my skull and the pieces of bone are pushing in on my brain so that there's no _

– then every second would hurt. And you wouldn't keep them, you'd want to get them as far out of your head as possible. You wouldn't lock them up. You'd send them flying out of your head, trying to forget those seconds when life itself was a torment.

But sometimes, you're not strong enough. It takes a lot of energy to keep a thought, to lock it up. It takes even more to send it away. And so that terrifying thing happens, when all the good and happy memories start to fade and you find all you can remember is the awful and horrible things that have happened to you, even when you don't want to. When that happens – when all you can think of is destruction and death and corpses lying in pools of blood –

_space to think, no room to breathe, it's truly terrible, i think i'll go mad, this isn't life i'm living, it's hell, a living breathing hell, the damned can't be much worse off than _

– then you need to be very careful. Because that's how you go mad, I've heard. When you can't think of the good and only see death in everyone's –

_this, they really can't, this feels like fire and pain and blood and burning and all the worst things in the world at once, this is torture, when my own thoughts turn on me and i can't remember, i can't think, i don't even know who i am sometimes, when i lay in bed and _

– faces, that that's when you start to go crazy. It's a horrible thing, to go mad. You don't want to.

There's a way to stop it, though. If you can't remember the good, only the bad, then you have to find new, good memories. It's easier to drive out the bad memories if you have strong new ones.

But this can be hard sometimes. Sometimes you can't find good memories. Sometimes you live in a world of metal and wheels, a world where the acts of everyday living aren't about flowers or the ocean or anything worth having. It's a world where every second belongs to war, to a war that can only and has already brought destruction and pain –

_it's all dark, i can't remember who i am at all, and it scares me, i feel like nothing, no one, like a forgotten bit of junk thrown away into a corner to rust when the one person who really knows me and cares isn't there to _

– and horrible things. It's not a nice world. And sometimes it's hard to find good memories there. The trick to that (and remember, you do this so that you won't become mad) is to find good things in everything. When you walk down the hallway and pass a young woman with a haunted look in her eyes, you mustn't let that remind of your own pain and that your eyes probably look just as haunted as –

_help, then despair closes in around me like a black net, and it's all i can do not to scream, though sometimes i do, just to see what _

– hers. Instead, you have to notice the nice things about her – like how her shining black hair is braided down her back, and how her eyes are exactly the same gray as storm clouds. If you see a haggard man at lunch, thirsting for the alcohol forbidden to him, you can't let that remind you of how you too are denied something, someone you desperately need, and how she is separated from -

_will happen, if maybe the horror surrounding me will change, but it never does, it's always the same, the same never-ending torment, and it never lets up, it never does, every second of every day it gnaws at me like a rat, this unceasing pain that stings sharper than any misbegotten insect from the capitol's labs, and it hurts, it_

– you by more than miles and is at this moment a helpless captive. Instead, you have to see how his voice is rough and scratchy like old brick, and how there are more silver hairs than brown in the stubble on his chin. If you go to a room and meet a man who can't walk anymore and sits in a wheelchair all day long, you can't think of how you too have lost your freedom, and how your mind is trapped just –

_hurts like nothing you've ever felt before, oh god it's awful, please make it stop, if you_

– like his body is. Instead, you have to notice how long his fingers are and the intricate things he can make with them, or the way his glasses keep falling down his short nose and he has to keep pushing them up. It's these things, the little things, that make up the good memories.

You don't believe me? You think these details too insignificant to be good? But you're wrong. You know you are. Look at all your best memories. Aren't they made of the littlest things – sea-green eyes, brown hair like silk, and soft skin translucent as the inner pink lining of a shell? It's the littlest things that matter. It's every second of every day. There are people who think in terms of years. They think of what will matter ten years from now, what happened ten years ago. But what happens is they end up missing all the good, all the little things, because they're so busy looking ahead or behind they can't –

_love me at all, please, please, heal me, i'm broken, i'm wrecked, shattered, torn, wounded, just a bleeding mess of humanity, and the hands that can heal me are a million miles _

– see what's happening right now. One day, maybe, they'll realize they're wrong. They'll look back on their lives and see all the little goods they missed and realize they'll never get them back. That's why it's so important for you to treasure every second and make them good. You only have so many, you know. And once they're gone, you never get them back.

All you can do is hope it's not too late.

* * *

_FROM THE AUTHOR:_

_This is probably the last update I'll do for a few months. College app season is starting, and I'll be spending most of my time on those. In the meantime, let me shamelessly plug the handful of fanart I've done for the Hunger Games. They're not exactly masterpieces, but there's three Finnick/Annie pieces in there, so if you feel like it head on over to my gallery at deviantArt and check them out. (http:/ royalheather. deviantart .com).  
_

_Also, I'm a little reluctant to dive into _Mockingjay. _Finnick goes through a heck of a lot, and the prospect of emotionally investing myself (as I would have to to write a good fanfiction) in such a shattered character is a little daunting. So expect the next update sometime in January._

_Thanks for the love,_

_RoyalHeather  
_


	7. The Chessboard

When he woke up, it was dark, with only a faint glow illuminating his Spartan surroundings. The young man lay still save for the sharp rise and fall of his chest and the quick flickering of his eyes as he tried to decipher his surroundings. But they were alien, cold and unfamiliar, and panic rapidly began to rise within him as he found no place in his memory for this strange dark room –

A scrap of white on the bedside table caught his eye and he reached for it automatically. In doing so, he found the light switch and flicked it. The light that filled the room was soft but not warm. It chilled the young man.

Fear swirled at the edges of his consciousness. He didn't know where he was, _who_ he was… It felt like all he had known was locked in some secret part of his mind that he couldn't access. Panic shook his hands and dried his throat.

He remembered the scrap of white and found it was a piece of paper, tossed carelessly on the utilitarian table. Desperate now for a clue, anything, he snagged the torn piece. There was writing on it, scribbled in cheap ink with a painful attempt at legibility:

_My name is Finnick Odair. I am 24 years old. __Write__ Right now I am in District Thirteen. They are rebeling against the Capi_

_ My name is Finnick Odair. I am 24 years old. Las night I wrote this down so that when I read it in the morning I will remember. I have been doing this for a month ever since I came to District Thirteen which is __rebei __rebl__ rebelling agaisnt the Ca_

_ My name is Finnick Odair. I am 24 years old. I write this down so that I can read it and not forget. I am in love with Annie Cresta. I love her with all my heart and soul and mind and body. But right now she is not here. Right now she is_

_ oh GOD! HELP ME!_

Finnick stared at the words he had written last night before going to bed. As the steady trickle of nightmarish memory surfaced within him he dropped his head into his hands. Drawing in a shaky breath, he wiped his hand across his eyes and leaned on his drawn-up knees.

"Finnick?" The door to his room opened, revealing an unfamiliar, red-headed woman. Finnick automatically tensed.

"Who're you?" he demanded.

"Evans, your nurse," said the woman quietly. There were circles under her dark blue eyes. "Remember me, Finnick?"

He shook his head violently. His hair, ragged and longer now, brushed against the scattered stubble on his jaw.

With a quiet sigh, the woman Evans shut the door and walked over to sit on a white plastic chair next to Finnick's bed. "I've been your nurse for a month, Finnick," she said. "Remember?"

Her voice was soft, with an accent that reminded Finnick of mist and the sea. Swallowing, Finnick looked away from her common, pleasant face, thinking instead of a face with fine bones and sea-green eyes.

"Finnick? Don't you remember me?"

The bit of paper caught his eye again and Finnick looked down at it, considering. "Do – do I forget you often?" he asked, voice hoarse.

Evans caught her lip and nodded. "Almost every day."

"I'm sorry," said Finnick, and he reached over and took her hand. The pressure of her fingers was solid, comforting. "I don't mean to forget."

"I know," she said, with a small smile. "No one is blaming you, Finnick. You've been through a lot."

His mind shied away from her last sentence. To distract himself, he looked at her face, studying it, searching for anything familiar.

"You know…I think I do remember you."

"Good." Evans smiled warmly, but her eyes were concerned. "What woke you? It's almost three."

Finnick shrugged, wrapping his arms around his legs. "I don't know."

"Did you remember anything when you woke up?"

Hunching his shoulders, Finnick shook his head and drew it down. Evans patted his knee comfortingly. "What do you remember now?"

"I remember this," said Finnick roughly, gesturing towards the piece of paper. "Most of it. Some of the details escape me."

"Do you remember people?"

Finnick rested his chin on his knees, eyes slightly screwed up as if he were trying to see far into the distance. "I remember Katniss. And Haymitch. Beetee. Peeta. Johanna. Connor, of course. There's a woman here, with…gray hair? She's important…"

"President Coin."

"Right, her. And – and – a fat man, older…his name started with a 'P', I think…"

"Plutarch Heavensbee."

"Yeah."

There was a pause, and then Evans said softly, "And what about Annie?"

Finnick's heart constricted and tears came to his eyes. "I will never forget Annie," he managed to say. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, he buried his face in his blanket-covered knees.

Evans stood and stroked his hair lightly. "Try to go to sleep now."

"Yeah." Finnick let out a long exhale but did not raise his head. Evans ran her fingers once more over the tangled bronze head before walking quietly out. As she shut the door, the lights went out.

_Annie…_

Finnick's hands clenched into hard fists, the tendons standing out on his arms. It both hurt and eased him to think of her. It eased him to think of her as she had been when he was with her, her skin, her hair, her smile…but it hurt him, more than he could bear, to think of her as a prisoner of …of them.

"Ah, Annie," he groaned. Wiping his eyes, he lay back down, hoping he would be able to sleep more before he had to get up. He hated the rigid schedules of this place. It choked him.

Finnick hoped for sleep, but not for dreams. Because his dreams were invariably times of torment and despair.

* * *

Finnick hated the other hospitable patients. He did. He really, really hated them.

He hated them because they scared him.

It had gotten so bad they'd had to keep him in a private room when he was admitted to the hospital – which was often. But it had been unbearable for Finnick, the ward. Shut in there all day with strange people he didn't know, people who watched him and whispered to each other about him.

So one of the doctor's offices had been converted into a sleeping room, and Evans' sleeping quarters had been moved to a room just around the corner from his in the residential level. Finnick now enjoyed an ambiguous status. He wore the gray uniform of a civilian but the little plastic bracelet on his wrist marked him as a patient; he was free from both the restrictions of the ward and the duties of a citizen of District Thirteen.

This, coupled with his paranoia, meant he had spent quite a lot of time in his room in the hospital or his assigned quarters, more often than not in a kind of suspended animation. That woman – the president – whatever the hell her name was – wasn't happy with that. She'd visited him a couple times, trying to get him to become some sort of mascot or spokesperson. But when it became clear that she was not going to mention news of Annie – which was all Finnick cared about – he'd found it easier and safer to retreat to a place deep within himself.

He'd woken up once to the sound of voices. Instinct had told him to stay very still, they were talking about him, and so he'd kept his eyes closed and listened.

The voices were very close, and above where he lay on his bed. Finnick pictured two people standing over him before focusing on their words.

"What's wrong with him?" It was a female voice, commanding, slightly arrogant. Finnick thought of gray hair and eyes hard as flint, looking down a snub nose.

"Post-traumatic stress disorder, President," said a softer voice that went with curly, dark red hair. "Deep psychological upheaval. He's lost everything – home, family, lover – all in a few days. Give him time."

Finnick did not want to think about what was implied by the second woman's sentence. He pushed her words away with his mind, trying to keep his breathing even.

"So?" The gray-haired woman was speaking again. "Katniss lost even more, but you don't see her lying around in a coma. Granted, she's still confused about things, but at least she's up and about. All he does is lie in his room."

"Give him time," repeated the soft-voiced woman. "If you press him, you will only hurt him irreparably."

Finnick heard a sharp, impatient sigh. "Fine. Alert me if he gets…better." Then there was the retreating clack of heels and the sound of a shutting door.

"Finnick?" There was the rustle of cloth, a pressure on the mattress next to him…the red-haired woman must have sat down. "Finnick, she's gone. You can wake up now."

His eyes flew open in panic. "She – she knew I was listening?"

The woman lightly patted his shoulder. "No, no," she soothed. "President Coin doesn't know."

Finnick sighed, relaxing as best he could into the thin mattress. "I don't want her to find me."

"I know, Finnick."

Her voice held the lilt of District Four. Frowning, Finnick turned his head and looked over at her. "Who are you?"

"Nurse Evans. Don't you – you don't remember?" Her blue eyes widened slightly.

Finnick shook his head. "Should I?"

Evans attempted a smile, her eyebrows pulled up worriedly. "Finnick, I've been your nurse for almost a week."

"Oh." He stared up at the blank white ceiling, considering. "I do forget things. I know that." He looked over at Evans again. "Why?"

She let out a slow, measured breath. "Your mind has been through a great deal of stress lately. So it copes by forgetting things."

"Important things?" His voice cracked.

Evans shrugged. "Sometimes."

Panicking, Finnick tried to remember everything, but it all was so confused that he only succeeded in making himself more and more afraid. "I can't – I can't remember!" he burst out, pushing himself up. "I can't – can't"

"Shh," soothed Evans, trying to push him back onto the pillows. "Don't think too hard."

Finnick stared at her, chest heaving. "Help me," he begged. "Help me remember."

Evans settled cross-legged on the bed, expression sympathetic. "I can't do that," she said. "You have to help yourself."

Swallowing hard, Finnick stared at the far wall. "I don't remember coming here," he said in a low voice. "But I remember before that…I remember the Hu – " His tongue stuck on the word and he choked slightly before continuing. "There was an ocean, and a jungle…" Memory hit him like a lightning bolt and he twisted to look directly at Evans, gripping her wrist. "Katniss! The arrow! And the tree!"

She nodded, looking wary. "Is that it?"

Running his hands through his hair, Finnick shook his head. "No…I remember everything now…"

"Everything?"

And that one soft question brought the most important person of all to Finnick's mind.

"Annie," he breathed. Her memory caressed him like silk, soothing as the scent of wildflowers. But that was before, something told him…the world had ended since then…

"ANNIE!" he screamed, jumping up, and before Evans could stop him he had rushed out of the room and was running down the alien hallway, for he had just remembered that Annie was in the hands of those people who wanted to suck her lifeblood out, and he had to find her, to save her –

He rounded a corner and nearly collided with a woman in a dark gray suit, her silver hair as straight as a ruler. As she turned with a startled exclamation, he fell back against the wall, wide-eyed and afraid.

"What's this?" she snapped. "Finnick?"

He couldn't answer. He could only stand petrified, waiting for her to leave…

Evans came running up, worry etched on her round face. The other woman's expression hardened.

"What is going on, Evans?" she demanded.

"Nothing, President," said Evans, and Finnick suddenly admired her for her bravery in standing up to the gray-haired woman. "Come on, Finnick."

She took his elbow and he obeyed, willing to do anything to get away from the other woman. But as they returned to his room, his earlier panic returned.

"Annie!" he gasped as soon as the door was shut. "She's a prisoner – hurt – we have to do something – "

Evans grasped his hands, looking at him steadily. "There's nothing we can do, Finnick."

It felt like the floor beneath his feet had vanished. "But – but then – but then she's lost," he whispered. "She'll die…"

"No, she won't," said Evans firmly. "_We_ can't do anything, but people are already trying to rescue her – "

"And she'll be safe then?" Finnick demanded.

Evans nodded. "As safe as she can be."

Reassured, Finnick released her hands and wandered over to the bed, collapsing on it and curling up. "I just want her back," he murmured into the pillow. A tear ran out of his eye and down his nose.

He felt a slight pressure on his head. Evans was lightly stroking his hair. "It'll be all right, Finnick," she said.

Swallowing, Finnick nodded. Evans turned to go, but as she opened the door he jerked upright again, calling her name.

"Yes?" She whirled around, braid swinging, eyes wide.

Finnick stared at her. "Riley's dead," he choked.

Evans' lips worked like she wanted to cry. "Yes, he is," she whispered back. "I'm sorry, Finnick."

He nodded, eyes tight with tears. As Evans left, shutting the door behind her, he curled up in a ball and began to silently weep.

* * *

"Finnick?" Evans entered as he was eating breakfast, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Finnick, there's an assembly today. You're required to go."

The spoon fell with a clunk into the bowl of cereal. Finnick stared at Evans, pulse pounding in his dry throat.

"I can't," he whispered, eyes wide. "I can't, Evans, there's too many people watching…"

"You don't have a choice," she said, sitting on the foot of the bed. "President Coin specifically asked – "

"I don't give a damn what that woman thinks!" Finnick burst out, nearly spilling the cold cereal. "I'm not going out there – I can't – "

"Shh – shh – " Evans put a white hand on one of Finnick's, which he realized was trembling. "Finnick, it'll be all right."

"No, it won't," said Finnick. But he put the bowl and spoon down and tried to steady his breathing.

"Finnick, no one here is going to harm you," said Evans earnestly, looking straight into his eyes. "You're safe here. You have to believe that."

"I'm not safe anywhere," muttered Finnick.

Evans shook her head and pursed her lips. "We talked about that, remember? None of this paranoia is real. It's all in your head."

"And the Ca – the – are _they_ in my head too?" burst out Finnick. "Did I imagine Riley dying? Is it not real that they have Annie?"

"No, unfortunately that's real," said Evans softly. "But there is no one in District Thirteen who wishes you harm. No one. You don't need to be afraid of people."

"I know," murmured Finnick, bowing his head. "But I can't help it."

"Here." Evans reached inside the pocket of her white tunic and drew out a length of rope. "This is for you."

Finnick made no move to take it, but stared at it with one eyebrow raised. "What the hell?"

Evans sighed. "It's to keep your mind occupied while you're outside. Focus on tying knots with this, not who's watching. Consider it part of your therapy."

"Oh." Hesitantly, Finnick reached out to take the rope. Almost of their own accord, his fingers began shaping knots – half-hitch, hitch, reefer – until with a twist of his fingers and a snap of his wrist the rope straightened out again.

"There." Evans looked pleased. "Concentrate on the rope while you're out with people, and it'll be easier to bear."

Nodding, Finnick coiled the rope around his hand. The rough touch of twisted fibers on his skin brought back memories of District Four, of working on the fishing ships and sailing in the bay. In fact, if he listened hard enough, he could hear the crash of waves and the clear cries of seagulls…

"Finnick?" Evans' voice intruded on his thoughts. "Finnick, finish your breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," he replied distantly.

"Finnick, yah have t' eat."

"I told you, Mags, I'm not hungry."

There was silence. Finnick looked up to find Evans staring at him. "What?" he asked.

A tiny, worried frown creased the skin of her forehead. "You just called me Mags," she said.

"I did? I'm sorry," said Finnick. He meant it, he really was. "I told you, I forget things."

"Like eating, apparently," said Evans wryly, picking up the half-full bowl of now-soggy cereal. "It's a good thing the kitchens don't know how much of their food you waste."

"Give it to someone else," said Finnick. An idea struck him and he added brightly, "Hey, I don't need to eat every day. Someone else can share my rations."

Evans sighed, standing up with the bowl and spoon in her hand. "Finnick, it's hard enough keeping you alive without you starving yourself as well." She walked to the door, saying, "The assembly's at 18:00, at the Collective. Do you need me to go with you?"

"No, I'll be fine."

Though skeptical, Evans consented. "Don't forget your rope. And stay near Valena Everdeen. I'll tell her to keep an eye on you."

Finnick thought she was talking about Katniss, but the name Valena confused him. "Who?"

"Your friend Katniss' mother. She's a nurse. She doesn't look much like Katniss, though – she has blonde hair and blue eyes."

"Oh." Finnick tried to imagine her, and ended up with a ridiculous picture in his head of Katniss with laugh lines and a platinum-blond bob cut. "So…"

"Stay with Nurse Everdeen, don't go wandering off, use the rope, and try not to freak out. Coin doesn't call assemblies often, so whatever she's saying must be important. You might want to pay attention."

* * *

Square knot. Hitch. Reefer. Granny.

Untie. Fold into loop, fold again. Draw the end through, pull tight…

All around Finnick were strange people whom he was sure were whispering and glancing at him. But he didn't pay attention to them, just focused on the knots he was tying over and over again. The only person he was really aware of was Valena Everdeen, who would have been beautiful if she hadn't looked so tired…

Someone said his name. He ignored it. The others were talking about him but he wouldn't acknowledge them, oh no…

"Finnick!" Something nudged him in the arm and he blinked. Katniss' face came into focus in front of him. "How are you doing?"

He seized her hand, making sure she was real. "Katniss. Why are we meeting here?" She was the Mockingjay, right? She'd be sure to know.

"I told Coin I'd be her Mockingjay," said Katniss. She looked tired, but not haunted. "But I made her promise to give the other tributes immunity if the rebels won. In public, so there are plenty of witnesses."

That was smart, and something Finnick would never have thought to ask. "Oh. Good. Because I worry about that with Annie," he said. "That she'll say something that could be construed as traitorous without knowing it." Oh, his sweet girl, she'd say anything if she thought it would save him, and then everyone else would tear her to pieces for it…

"Don't worry, I took care of it," said Katniss, squeezing his hand. She left to weave her way through the crowd to the woman standing behind the podium. Finnick ducked his head, afraid the woman would see him. When her attention was on Katniss, he began retreating through the crowd until his back was to a wall. Once there, he could close his eyes and block out everything except the feel of the rope in his fingers. Only a few minutes, and soon he could go back to his blessedly empty room…

Someone came to stand by him. Finnick opened his eyes briefly, saw it was Katniss, and tried to concentrate on his rope again. Except now the woman was speaking, and her voice bored inside Finnick's head like a drill –

"Attention!" she said, brisk and commanding like a drill sergeant. "May I have everyone's attention!" When the audience was quiet, she continued, "Soldier Everdeen has agreed to represent our cause as the Mockingjay, provided victors Peeta Mellark, Johanna Mason, Enobaria Case, and Annie Cresta are granted full pardon for any damage they do to the rebel cause."

The crowd muttered restlessly. Finnick shut them out, fingers moving in an endless pattern – hitch, square knot, overhand…

"But in return for this unprecedented request," continued the woman, "Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviation from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated and the fate of the four victors determined by the law of District Thirteen. As would her own. Thank you."

Finnick wasn't worried by that. He knew Katniss would do whatever the part of the Mockingjay required. It was the only way she could get Peeta back.

* * *

Today was a good day. Finnick woke up remembering who and where he was. Since he hadn't been hungry, he'd skipped breakfast and had spent most of the morning wandering around in the upper levels, where there was hardly anyone around. He'd been too hungry to avoid lunch, but he'd gotten to the cafeteria so late that there was only a handful of people there anyway. One of them was an older man, heavyset, with silvery-gray hair and that indefinable air of being used to getting his way. When he saw Finnick, he headed straight for him.

"Plutarch," said Finnick, proud he remembered his name.

"Finnick!" Plutarch made as if to seize his hand before stopping, his arm swinging awkwardly. "Are you all right then? I heard some unsettling rumors…"

So people _were_ talking about him! Finnick made a mental note to tell Evans that. "I'm all right," he said.

"Uh-huh," grunted Plutarch, scrutinizing his face. "Listen, we're going to be doing some propo shooting of Katniss down at the soundstage. Want to come watch? It'll be like old times."

Finnick didn't know what he meant by "old times," but he would like to see Katniss again and it would be a change from the routine. The only thing was… "How many people will be there?" he asked.

Plutarch shrugged. "I don't know. Probably about a dozen," he said. "Why?"

A dozen was okay. Finnick could handle that, if they were all busy with Katniss. "Just wondering."

Chuckling, Plutarch bumped him in the arm with his fist. "Missing your audience, are you?"

Finnick stared at him blankly. Audience…what was Plutarch talking about? Belatedly, he realized he was making the older man uneasy and dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't apologize," said Plutarch. He swung his arms, unsure of what to say. "Well, why don't you come with me to the soundstage then?"

"Sure," said Finnick. He would have liked to go back to his room, to get the rope, but thought it rude to leave Plutarch. So he followed him through hallways and down the elevator. Plutarch had been speaking the truth; there weren't more than fifteen or fourteen people there. He pulled up a folding chair in the back of the room and watch them scurry around like ants.

First they prepped the stage itself, setting up smoke machines and testing the different lights. After about half an hour of this, they sat around under the direction of Plutarch's assistant Fulvia and brainstormed various ideas. Finnick sat half-in, half-out of their circle and doodled his way through a pad of paper.

Most of his drawings were nonsense, one-eyed imps and bat-winged toadstools and fat little frogs in tuxedos. But by his sixth page, he'd started sketching something else with broad strokes of the pencil – a face, sweet and gentle, with large eyes and slightly curved lips. A few more lines brought the eyes into sharper definition. He began adding hair, dark and billowing. But to his frustration the pencil strokes only got darker and wilder until they seemed to be taking over the page, obscuring the gentle feminine face with the frantic lines of harsh charcoal –

With a gasp, Finnick straightened, breaking his attention away from the drawing. Breathing hard, he tore the page out and crumpled it up. No one else had noticed. They were all busy discussing Katniss.

Finnick stuck to simple doodles after that.

After what had been at least an hour Katniss walked in, wearing a sleek black jumpsuit and made up like a dark princess. Finnick ambled around as the various people worked, sometimes sticking his nose in and asking questions but generally just getting used to the idea of being around people. By the time Plutarch pronounced himself satisfied, Finnick felt more at ease than he had for a long time – well, ever since he had gotten to Thirteen. He came up behind Katniss, who was watching a playback of herself with a slightly awestruck expression, and said, "They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you."

Katniss couldn't hide her pleased little smile. Finnick grinned and left the soundstage – Evans had told him not to push it when it came to mixing with people. And, truth be told, he was a little tired.

* * *

Apparently, as amazing as Katniss had looked, she was a horrible actress. That was Surprise Number One. Finnick had thought she'd done a pretty good job during the Hung – while they were in the arena. Apparently it was different when her life wasn't in danger.

Surprise Number Two was that Haymitch was still alive.

Finnick hadn't seen or heard anything of him since coming to Thirteen. For some reason, he'd assumed he was dead. But when he pushed in a wheelchair-bound Beetee into Command, there was the grizzled District Twelve victor standing at the head of the table.

"Morning, ladies and gents," he said. There was quite a few of them – the woman and her assistants, Plutarch, Fulvia, Katniss' prep team, a handful of people from Twelve, including Katniss, and a man from Ten that Finnick didn't know.

"Well, we're all here," said Haymitch. "And I think anyone who's seen yesterday's footage would agree that we have a real problem on our hands."

He proceeded to play the offending clip. Finnick had a hard time looking at it, it was so horribly awkward. The girl _could not _act.

At last it was over. "All right," said Haymitch. "Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning this war?"

No one did, of course. Haymitch continued, "That saves time. So, let's all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or…"

Finnick's attention was wandering. He started absentmindedly picking at his cuticles. To think of when Katniss Everdeen had moved him was to think of certain events in his past that he would rather forget. He continued to examine his nails.

People sitting around the table were offering up various anecdotes. And suddenly, Finnick felt like speaking.

He raised his hand. The orange-haired man who had been speaking broke off mid-sentence to stare at him.

Haymitch cleared his throat. "Mr. Odair?"

Finnick stared at him. He wanted to talk about when they were together in the arena, when he had realized she was a good person, but the words stuck in his throat. He continued to gaze blankly at Haymitch for a moment more before shaking his head and looking down.

"Moving on, then." More people began giving examples as if nothing had happened; a couple looked quickly at Finnick. Only Plutarch met his eyes. _I understand,_ his gaze seemed to say. _I know what you are going through._

At last the flow of examples stopped. "So, the question is," said Haymitch, "what do all of these have in common?"

"They were Katniss's," said the District Twelve boy who was her cousin. "No one told her what to do or say."

"Uncsripted, yes!" said Beetee, taking Katniss' hand. "So we should just leave you alone, right?"

There was a ripple of laughter around the table. Finnick noticed that the woman did not join in.

"Well, that's all very nice but not very helpful," said Fulvia, pissed that her plan for turning Katniss into a mascot hadn't worked. "Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. So unless you're suggesting we toss her into the middle of combat – "

Finnick did not hear the rest. At the word _combat_ he'd frozen, his mind no longer in District Thirteen. It seemed to him he was back in the arena – not the false paradise of saltwater and jungle but a nightmare landscape of snowy mountains and razor-sharp rocks, and it seemed to him that Jarex was bearing down on him, bloody war ax raised high over his head –

Eyes closed, Finnick gripped the arms of his chair. He must not, he _must not_ have another relapse.

"Take her into Eight this afternoon," the woman was saying. "There was heavy bombing this morning – "

* * *

"Finnick? Finnick, can you hear me?"

Blearily, he cracked his eyes open, fighting through the haze of medication. He was lying on an uncomfortable bed, a thin sheet pulled over his sweaty torso. A woman he didn't know was sitting next to him, her dark red curls pulled back and braided.

"Where am I?" he asked, voice cracking all over the place.

"In District Thirteen," said the woman. Her voice – quiet, evenly modulated – held the accent of District Four.

Finnick studied her closely. She had a round, pleasant face, freckled on the forehead and across the cheeks and rounded nose. Her dark blue eyes were wide, with little crow's feet at their sides. She was probably around thirty.

"Who're you?" said Finnick.

The woman reached forward, smoothing his bedsheet. "My name is Evans," she said. "I'm your nurse."

"Evans?" Finnick managed a weak smile. "Is that your first or last name?"

Evans smiled back. "Last name," she said.

"Wait…" Finnick's foggy brain was beginning to work. "You're a nurse?"

"Yes," she said.

"Does that…am I sick?"

Evans nodded. "You've been very ill, Finnick," she said softly.

He frowned at her. "Why?"

"Don't you remember?"

"I – " Finnick cast his mind back, trying to figure out. All there was was blackness, or inconsequential memories of home. "No, no, I don't remember."

"Do you remember the Hunger Games?"

_Ohhh… _

"Yeah, I remember," he said hoarsely. "The forcefield blew up, and…" He stopped, swallowed. "They've got Annie, haven't they?"

"Yes, Finnick."

"And Riley…" Finnick's voice trailed off and he closed his eyes, a tear running down the side of his face.

After a while he opened his eyes, looking at Evans. "This is District Thirteen?"

She nodded. "You arrived only a couple of days ago, but we've had to keep you drugged for a while. You were in a terrible state."

Finnick wasn't listening. "They're going to rebel against the Capitol," he said. "Isn't that strange?" The idea tickled him and he began to giggle. "Imagine that! They think they can win…"

"Finnick." Evans was frowning worriedly at him, but he ignored her.

"They're trying to win!" Finnick laughed. "They think just because they've got a painted mascot and a handful of nuclear weapons they can beat them! They're actually going to try – " A helpless paroxysm of laughter shook him and he nearly doubled over, paralyzed by insane mirth. "They'll all be blown to bits!"

His laughter, if that was what you could call the horrible cackling sounds he was making, rang through the room. Evans' hands fluttered uselessly over his face, trying to calm him as she called frantically for help. But Finnick laughed until his stomach hurt and the hot tears ran down his face, blinding him to everything but his searing pain…

No, no, that wasn't right…that had already happened…over a month ago…

"Finnick?"

Everything was so messed up in his head…

"Finnick, wake up…"

Death…combat…bombing the districts…

"Katniss is going to District Eight!" yelped Finnick, jerking upright in bed so quickly it made his head swim.

"Shh," soothed Evans. "Shh, Finnick, it's all right."

Groaning, Finnick lay back down. He was in his room at the hospital, he realized. "She can't go," he muttered. "She'll die."

"No one's dying, Finnick," said Evans.

"I have to go!" he shouted, sitting up again. "I need to be there!"

"Finnick, you can't. You're not strong enough."

"Please!" begged Finnick. "At least let me ride on the hovercraft!"

"No – no, Finnick – " But he had already leapt out of bed and was running through the hospital, stopping only to yank his slippers on and grab his rope. He was a faster runner than plump Evans and was soon out of the hospital altogether. His frantic breaths scraped in his dry throat and his heart pounded in his chest.

He saw Katniss and an older man standing by one of the elevator chutes. "Katniss!" he cried, skidding to a halt. "They won't let me go! I told them I'm fine, but they won't even let me ride in the hovercraft!" He stared desperately at her, sure she would understand how much he needed to go with them…

But she did something very odd instead. She hit herself on the forehead. "Oh, I forgot," she said. "It's this stupid concussion. I was supposed to tell you to report to Beetee in Special Weaponry. He's designed a new trident for you."

Finnick's train of thought derailed with the speed of a crashing hovercraft. "Really? What's it do?" Tridents were cool.

"I don't know. But if it's anything like my bow and arrows, you're going to love it. You'll need to train with it, though."

At some point while Katniss was talking, Finnick's feverish brain began to cool and he realized that maybe Evans had been right about him not going, if he was going to freak out like this. He wasn't sure if his shattered nerves could handle dealing with weaponry, but it was better than visiting bombed-out District Eight. And who knew, a couple hours with his old toy might prove relaxing.

"Right," he said. "Of course. I guess I better get down there."

"Finnick?" said Katniss, eyebrows raised. "Maybe some pants?"

Finnick realized he was clad in nothing but his underwear and one of those dreadful paper hospital gowns. Well, if he was going to run around half-naked anyway…

With a flourish, he divested himself of his outer garments. "Why?" he asked Katniss, putting his hands on his hips, leaning on one leg and lifting his shoulder seductively. "Do you find this distracting?"

Katniss laughed, either at him or the expression on her security guard's face. Finnick joined in, willing to share in a moment of levity. "I'm only human, Odair," she said as the elevator doors closed in front of her.

Still chuckling, Finnick wrapped his rope around his wrist and began folding the gown up. Evans finally caught up to him, cheeks flushed and hair frizzled. "Finnick?" she panted. As she took in his barely-clothed state, her face turned an even deeper shade of pink.

"No worries, Evans," said Finnick, clapping her on the shoulder. "Where's my clothes? I want to get down to Special Weaponry."

The look of confusion on her face was beautiful to see.

* * *

"Well, they're back," said Fulvia, both exasperated and relieved, plopping into the seat next to Finnick in the cafeteria.

"Who?" He wasn't eating, just trying to see how many knots he could tie in his rope at once. Four, five…damn. Not enough rope.

Fulvia shot him an odd look. "Katniss and company, of course," she said. Blowing on her stew to cool it, she swallowed a spoonful and added, "Apparently, Cressida got some _gorgeous_ footage." She made no attempt to conceal the rancor in her voice.

"Mm." Finnick untied the knots and started over. Maybe if he tied them as close together as possible…

"I mean, it's not like she _did_ anything. All she did was follow Katniss around with a camera. Forget the _hours_ of preparation that Plutarch and I put into this…" She glared at him. "Finnick, are you even listening to me?"

He wasn't. There was just enough rope left for a sixth knot, possibly. He stuck his tongue between his teeth and tried to knot it.

"But no, it's Cressida this and Messalla that," continued Fulvia. Apparently she did not need an audience to continue talking. "And no one pays any attention to the rest of us."

Finnick's fingers slipped and the sixth knot unraveled. "Seems to me," he said, face tight with concentration as he swiftly unknotted the rest, "that there's a lot of people who aren't being paid attention to. Like the other tributes. All anyone thinks about is Katniss, but the rest of us suffered too."

"I know," said Fulvia. "I always liked Brutus, but you don't see anyone doing a tribute to _him…_"

Suddenly her lavender-dyed eyes grew as big as saucers and she gasped, pink mouth forming an _O._ "That's it!" she said. "If we did a series of propos, each one commemorating a different tribute… one for each District! It would be so personal, everyone would love it! Don't you think so?"

Finnick shrugged. "I guess." He had four knots tied and could barely squeeze in a fifth…

"It's perfect! And…how would you like to narrate it?"

Narrate? What the hell. "Sure, why not," said Finnick. He thought of the piece they would have on Annie, showing how sweet and beautiful she was, and warmth blossomed in his stomach. "Yeah, I'll do it."

"Thank you!" Fulvia seized his face in her hands and planted a kiss on the top of his head. Before Finnick could blink she had dashed off to go tell her brilliant idea to Plutarch.

Finnick sat there blankly for a few moments. Then he turned back to his rope with a shrug. If only he could fit that sixth knot in…

"Soldier Odair?"

Finnick looked up at the sound of his name and saw a gray-clad soldier standing in front of him, a folded piece of paper in his hand. "Yeah?" Finnick asked.

The soldier held out the paper. "Letter for you from District Four."

Finnick reached out slowly and took the paper. "Thanks," he said, swallowing.

"No problem, Soldier."

Finnick waited until the sound of the man's bootsteps had faded away. Glancing around to make sure no one in the room was watching, Finnick unfolded the letter under the table.

Written in Connor's neat printing, it read:

_ Finnick,_

_I hope you're well. Dalia and the kids are all right. We're doing okay here. I can't say much about the war in case this falls into the wrong hands but I don't think you need to worry much about District Four. President Coin has been good to us, making sure we get the medical supplies and food we need. _

_We miss you, Finnick, but it is more important that you are safe. Everyone at home grieves for both you and Annie, and hope that you can be reunited soon. Ciara blames you for her daughter's capture, but once Annie is rescued I do not think she will hold it against you._

_Also, Riley was buried on the cliff top, facing the ocean. I thought you would want to know. _

_ Until we meet again,_

_ Connor Burns_

Sighing, Finnick folded the letter into thirds and tucked it inside his shirt. God, he missed home. He missed it so much it hurt.

* * *

"Hey, Katniss." Finnick stuck his head into her hospital room where she sat in bed, propped up by a couple of pillows. "Mind if I join you?"

"Sure." She smiled quickly at him and shifted her dinner tray so there was more room on the bed. Finnick sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, balancing his own tray on his knees. He actually felt hungry today.

"Hey, want to see the new propo?" he asked her. Finnick hadn't seen the first one, but from what he heard it had been pretty effective.

Katniss, her mouth full of bread, nodded. She tossed him the remote to the little TV on the wall and he clicked it on. "Which channel?"

Swallowing, Katniss said, "Any major one. Beetee's hacked through to pretty much all of them."

Finnick picked the channel that would be broadcast to District Four, hoping to see some glimpse of cliffs and crashing waves, but there was nothing but static. With a sigh, he switched back to District Thirteen's own channel, just in time to see the propo.

He didn't watch it, though. He couldn't. After the first shot of bombed-out District Eight and the nightmarish hospital, he closed his eyes and concentrated hard on keeping himself under control, taking deep, slow breaths like Evans had taught him. He wished he had his rope.

At last, after the screams and explosions and disembodied narrations were over, he opened his eyes. There was a shot of a bloodied and dirtied Katniss, standing in the midst of rubble, that slowly faded to black.

The real Katniss lifted her face out of her pillow, looking to him. No longer hungry, Finnick pushed a chunk of cabbage around on his tray. "People should know what happened," he said, looking down. "And now they do." But he couldn't get rid of the sick feeling in his stomach.

"Let's turn it off, Finnick," said Katniss, "before they run it again." She looked pale as well. It must have been twice as hard for her to watch, having seen it all in person. Finnick was obediently reaching for the remote when she shouted "Wait!"

Finnick looked back to the TV. All he saw was Caesar Flickerman, gaudy in sparkling magenta. And then Peeta walked onstage.

He looked…bad. Really bad. Even on the screen, all dolled up under the set's lights, he was thin and shaky. And there was a horribly haunted, familiar look in his eyes…

"Hey, Peeta," said Flickerman, as airily as if Peeta were just some Ca – city celebrity. "How've you been?"

"Not too bad," said Peeta dully. "Worried about Katniss."

Flickerman's eyebrows formed a line of false sympathy. "Missing her?"

Peeta nodded and reached up as if to cover his face before he remembered the makeup he had on and jerked his hand down.

"What do you think about those rumors that she's taping propos for the districts?" asked Flickerman.

"They're using her, obviously. To whip up the rebels. I doubt she even really knows what's going on in the war. What's at stake."

Was he right? Finnick barely had time to wonder before Peeta was speaking again.

"Don't be a fool, Katniss," he said, looking right into the camera as if he could speak to her directly. "Think for yourself. They've turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you've got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it's too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you're working with? Do you really know what's going on? And if you don't…find out."

Finnick mechanically pressed the power button, turning the TV off, but his mind was racing. Lover Boy…Lover Boy was right! Katniss was a pawn, and he probably was too, only he was too sick and disoriented to really do anything anyway…

Footsteps sounded outside the door, and Finnick had a bloody good idea what they were coming for. Seizing Katniss' arms, he said, "We didn't see it."

"What?" she asked.

"We didn't see Peeta. Only the propos on Eight. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?" She nodded. He hoped he understood that this was maybe the only way they could see what mattered more to those on high – Katniss being well-informed, or Katniss being kept happy and safe. "Finish your dinner," he said.

Plutarch and Fulvia came in, trying to hide their anxious expressions. Finnick headed them off with some empty compliments about Katniss' cousin Gale's on-screen talent. They beamed, and added their own endorsements to the drivel he and Katniss were spouting out.

Not once did they say Peeta's name. And that settled it in Finnick's mind. Katniss, and he, and probably Gale and Beetee and anyone else in their little circle, were just toys in the woman's masterful hands.


	8. Frayed

_We remember Cecilia, from District Eight. Cecilia Gray never thought she'd be going back to the arena. All she wanted was to live peacefully with her husband and three children. Though she dreaded the shadow of the Hunger Games, she never dreamt it would fall on her instead – _

Finnick hastily moved the piece of paper to the back of the stack and began the next one. _We remember Brutus, from District Two. Brutus Emery was a competitor through and through. He welcomed the chance to go back to the Hunger Games, seeing it as just one more test of his prodigious skill – _

Frantically, Finnick began flipping through the sheets of paper, but he couldn't help seeing the names that leapt out at him from the neatly typed pages – Rue Oliverra – Wiress Sabeck – Margaret "Mags" Delaney –

Flinging the papers from him onto the table, Finnick leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of his chair, trying to calm his breathing.

"Finnick?" Evans spoke softly, from his left. "Are you all right?"

Eyes still shut, Finnick nodded. "Just give me a second."

She did. Taking a deep breath, Finnick sat up straight and opened his eyes, looking at her. He managed a small smile for her sake. "I'm all right."

But she wasn't there. Finnick couldn't explain it, but somehow she suddenly just wasn't there. In a panic, he jumped to his feet, heart pounding in his Adam's apple.

"Finnick?" Fulvia hurried towards him, cheeks pink under their silver flower design. "What's wrong?"

"Where's Evans?" he asked with numb lips.

Fulvia pointed over to the other side of the soundstage. "Right there, talking to Plutarch."

Finnick whipped around. Sure enough, there was her vivid braid. He stared at her, but she did not disappear.

"Finnick?" Fulvia sounded nervous. "Is everything all right?"

He nodded but did not look at her. "Yeah," he said, voice strangely low. "Yeah, everything's fine."

She walked away, shoes loud on the tiled floor. Finnick sank back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and trying to take deep, calming breaths. He thought he'd stopped seeing people…

At first, when he'd first come here and had been at his worst, it had been Annie, by herself mostly but sometimes accompanied by Riley. Then other people had started populating his imaginary cast. Mags. Katniss, who for some reason was always angry at him. Connor.

After a couple of weeks, as he finally started getting a grip on himself, Finnick had seen less and less of them. Annie stopped sitting by his bed and was only a flash of brown hair at the end of a hallway. Riley gave up walking next to him to stick his head out of random doorways. Eventually, they'd faded altogether.

So what the f-k was Evans doing in his illusionary lineup?

Mechanically, he stood and walked over to where Plutarch and Evans stood. Evans, who seemed to have been giving Plutarch some sort of instructions, broke off as Finnick approached.

"Finnick!" beamed Plutarch. "How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," said Finnick. Actually, he felt slightly sick. "And you?"

"Couldn't be better." Plutarch gestured towards the papers. "Are you ready to start, then?"

Finnick nodded. "I think so."

"Excellent." Plutarch led Finnick over to where a folding chair had been set up next to a microphone, panels, and other recording equipment. "It'll be just your voice, so no need to worry about acting. Just read off the paper into the mic, and put a little feeling into it."

"Right." Finnick sat down on the gray plastic chair, swallowing hard.

Fulvia bustled over, carnation-pink hair piled on top of her head and a clipboard in her manicured hands. "Right, first we'll just have you read the little intro, and then I think we'll do all the ones from the Quarter Quell first, then the 74th, and then we'll just go back doing all the important tributes." She smiled at Finnick. "Don't worry, no one's leaving you and Annie out."

Finnick nodded. He tried to be glad, but only felt nauseous.

"Ready, then?" said Fulvia. "Let's start with the intro. You've got the paper, right?"

"Yeah, right here," said Finnick, pulling the right one out.

"Good," enthused Fulvia. "I think if we work hard, we can get everyone from the 75th in today, and maybe some of the important ones from the 74th. Does that sound okay?" Finnick nodded. "Remember, the red light will flash three times, and then it will stay on. That means you're recording, so read nicely!" She hurried back to her seat, some feet away, with Plutarch, Evans, and Cressida.

Finnick took a deep breath. _I can do this,_ he thought. _This is nothing._

"Ready?" called Fulvia brightly. Finnick nodded.

The little red light next to the mic flashed once, twice, three times. Then it was on, a steady, unblinking eye.

Taking a deep breath, Finnick began to read. "My name is Finnick Odair. I was the victor of the 65th Hunger Games. Now I speak to you of all the other tributes who have lived and died in the games. But regardless of whether they one or lost, they – _we_ – have all suffered. So we remember them now."

There was a beat of silence, and then the light turned off. Fulvia beamed at him, and Plutarch gave him two thumbs up.

"Beautiful!" called Fulvia. She looked down her clipboard and said, "Okay, let's do Gloss next. You have his paper?"

Finnick nodded again. He noticed his hands were shaking slightly as he found the paragraph dedicated to Gloss.

Again, the light blinked three times and stayed on. Finnick cleared his throat and started reading. "We remember Gloss, from District One. Gloss was admired through all the districts for his beauty. In fact, he and his sister Cashmere were often compared to ancient gods and goddesses. But that beauty couldn't save him when his name was picked in the Quarter Quell – "

Finnick's voice cracked and broke, and he had to stop. "I'm sorry, can we start over?" he asked.

"Of course," said Fulvia, nodding. "Take as much time as you need."

Closing his eyes, Finnick took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Okay, I'm ready," he said.

"We remember Gloss, from District One," he began. "Gloss was admired through all the districts – "

And he couldn't continue. With a choked cry, he jumped off the seat and ran to the back wall, knocking a panel over on the way, ignoring the surprised cries of his audience. Gasping, he leaned against the wall, trying to regain control, but it was no good. He sank to the floor with one arm wrapped around his middle, feeling cold and sick.

He hadn't liked Gloss. Heck, he'd hardly known him. But here he was, crouched on the floor like an animal, feeling as sick and dizzy as if he had the flu.

"What's wrong with him?" he heard Fulvia say, shrilly, as if frightened. Swallowing hard, Finnick closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally.

"Finnick?" Evans' voice sounded soft by his head. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he gasped. "Just give me a minute."

Slowly, his swirling stomach calmed and he opened his eyes, face and back cold with sweat. Evans was kneeling next to him, a look of unalloyed sympathy on her face.

"You don't have to do this, you know," she said. "Not if it makes you ill."

"No," said Finnick, shaking his head. "No, I have to. It's about more than me, isn't it?"

Evans looked sad. "It's your decision, Finnick," she said. "If you think you're up to it…"

"I have to be." Finnick used the wall to push himself up.

"Okay." Evans hesitated before asking, "Is there anything you need?"

"Water?" he asked hopefully. That was rationed just as tightly as food.

Evans looked to Plutarch, who was standing a few feet away. He nodded to her. "Don't worry, Finnick," said the older man. "Just take five minutes for a break. We'll get you a glass of water, and maybe then you'll feel better and continue."

Finnick dipped his head. "Thank you," he said. He still felt a little shaky, so he made his way back to his seat and sat down, running his hands through his shaggy hair.

Fulvia pattered over, looking upset. "I'm sorry, Finnick," she said. "I didn't think this would have such an affect on you…"

"It's all right," said Finnick, looking up and attempting a smile. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh, but are you sure?" Fulvia looked to Evans, who was standing next to Finnick with a hand on his shoulder. "Do you really think he should continue, if it makes him sick?"

"That's for Finnick to say," said Evans quietly. "I think he can handle it."

Fulvia looked doubtful, but she went back to her seat. An aide came up to Finnick and handed him a glass of water. Finnick drank only enough to settle his stomach, wishing that the engineers who purified the water would find a way to get rid of that metallic taste as well.

"All right," he said, voice hoarser but stronger. "I'm ready."

Plutarch nodded to the man who was handling the recording. Finnick took a deep breath, balanced the paper on his knees, and began to read.

"We remember Gloss," he said, voice strong and clear. "Gloss was admired through all the districts for his beauty. In fact, he and his sister Cashmere were often compared to ancient gods and goddesses. But that beauty couldn't save him when his name was picked in the Quarter Quell. So he bravely bid goodbye to all the people who had learnt to love him and set out once more for the Capitol…"

* * *

"God, I hope this works," said Finnick, staring at the little screen in front of him on the table in Command. More and more people were coming in; he had one foot on the seat next to him, saving it for Katniss.

"It'll work," said Plutarch. "Beetee's an absolute genius."

"He'll have to be, to crack the Capitol feed."

There was a ripple of interest from the gathered people and Finnick turned his head in time to see Katniss walk in, accompanied by her bodyguard. "Hey, Katniss," he called casually. "Saved you a seat."

"Thanks," she said, slipping into it. "What's going on? Aren't we seeing the Twelve propos?"

"Oh, no," said Plutarch, on the other side of her. "I mean, possibly. I don't know exactly what footage Beetee plans to use."

"Beetee thinks he's found a way to break into the feed nationwide. So that our propos will air in the Capitol, too," explained Finnick. "He's down working on it in Special Defense now. There's live programming tonight. Snow's making an appearance or something." A flicker of movement on his screen caught his eye. "I think it's starting."

The Capitol seal first, of course, accompanied by that bloody anthem. Then a shot of the man Finnick hated most in the world, more than Jarex or Silas or anyone else, looking immaculate in pale gray with a white rose in his lapel. And sitting to his left, Peeta…a complete wreck. Skinny, sweating, with _that_ look written all over his face.

"He's worse," whispered Katniss. Finnick grasped her hand comfortingly.

Peeta started ranting about his cease-fire, talking about damage done to the districts. That was nonsense, of course. Finnick was keeping his eyes pealed and his ears pricked for any special messages to Katniss –

And there was Katniss, standing in a ruined house on the screen! "He did it!" shouted Plutarch, leaping up. "Beetee broke in!"

The camera returned to Peeta, looking confused. And then Finnick saw a picture of a small, black-haired girl and heard himself saying, "Rue saw Katniss not as a competitor, but as an older sister – "

There then followed an absolute media war, Beetee's clips against the Capitol's studio feed. Finnick sat stunned by the barrage of images. Beetee had known he'd need striking clips to catch his audience's attention, and there were so many of blood and death and destruction…The rest of the room was cheering, but Finnick struggled hard to hold on to his sanity while forcing himself to watch.

Finally, the Capitol managed to wrench screen control back to themselves. Snow spoke to Peeta, his normally cool tone heated. "Given tonight's demonstration," he snapped, "do you have any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen?"

Peeta's face screwed up like a small child trying to remember. "Katniss…" he gasped, "how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you…in Thirteen…" He took a deep, fighting breath. "Dead by morning!"

"End it!" barked Snow. Beetee began flashing more images of the ruined hospital, and Finnick caught his breath and closed his eyes. But he could still hear. He could hear the sounds of fighting, and Peeta's cry of pain as someone hit him. And rapidly, consuming all, was the rising babble of people's voices.  
"Shut up!" roared someone. Finnick opened his eyes as the room quieted. Haymitch was standing at the head of the table, next to the woman. "It's not some big mystery!" he snapped. "The boy's telling us we're about to be attacked. Here. In Thirteen."

The babble began again, questioning him, questioning Peeta. Haymitch snarled and everyone fell silent again. "They're beating him bloody while we speak. What more do you need? Katniss, help me out here!"

She sat frozen in her seat, pale, eyes large and wide. At Haymitch's demand, she swallowed hard and said, "Haymitch's right. I don't know where Peeta got the information. Or if it's true. But he believes it is. And they're – " She broke off, and her lower lip quivered.

Haymitch turned to the woman. "You don't know him," he said. "We do. Get your people ready."

The woman did not respond immediately, but stood there, deliberating, tapping a keyboard with an unpolished fingernail as she weighed her options out loud. Finnick did not listen to her. He didn't have to – someone else would surely tell him what to do.

"I do," he heard the woman say evenly. "At any rate, we're overdue for a Level Five security drill. Let's proceed with the lockdown."

And a horrible, high-pitched, mind-numbing wailing filled the air. Finnick screwed up his face in pain from the sirens.

Katniss' bodyguard appeared next to her. As Katniss was getting out of her seat, he gestured to Finnick to come too. Finnick wordlessly rose – speech was useless in this alarum – and followed the two down stairs after stairs after stairs. Finnick began feeling claustrophobic, not from the building, but from the hordes of people that surrounded him. He was so sure they were watching him…

The bodyguard had him and Katniss check themselves into a computer. Finnick barely noticed the surroundings – just that they were big, and dimly lit, and unfriendly.

Katniss' bodyguard told him he was assigned to Compartment O. Finnick nodded mutely and set off, weaving his way through the people, keeping his head down and trying very hard not to be noticed. But his heart was pounding in his throat and sweat beaded his temples.

A hand came down on his shoulder. It was a light touch, but he jumped out of his skin all the same. "It's just me, Finnick," soothed Evans.

Finnick breathed a sigh of relief, partly because it was her and partly because he had reached his space – a bunk carved into the wall, with his name on a tape written above it. Mercifully, there were only a few other people close by.

"Where's your compartment?" he asked Evans.

She nodded her head back up the way they had come. "Compartment E," she said. "But I'll be checking on you often."

"Okay," said Finnick numbly. He sat down on his bunk, past caring at this point.

"Here." Evans extended her hand, and Finnick saw she held the rope. "You might want this."

"Thanks," said Finnick hoarsely, taking it. She nodded once, seeming to want to say more, then turned and began walking away.

"Evans!" called Finnick quietly, standing. She turned back to him, worried. Finnick took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly. "Evans, I don't think I can take this."

Walking back to him, she took his hands and raised them to the height of his chest, on level with her nose, wrapping them around the rope. "Yes, you can, Finnick," she said. "Just don't give in."

* * *

He didn't give in on the first night. Nor the second. The third was worse.

It had begun with nightmares, godawful nightmares that he couldn't remember when he woke up but left him with a cold sheen of sweat all over and a sick feeling in his stomach. So instead of sleeping, he'd settled down with his back to the wall under the dim fluorescent light, knotting and re-knotting his rope until the ends began to fray. It was the only way he could keep himself together…

"Finnick?" Katniss whispered out of the half-darkness, and Finnick saw her eyes gleam like a cat's as she scooted over to sit next to him.

"Hey, Katniss," he said back. Then he took a better look at her face and saw it was drawn with pain. "What's up?" he asked gently.

Katniss took a deep breath. "I figured it out," she said. "I know why Snow is torturing Peeta."

Finnick didn't say anything. He kept knotting the rope. But a small voice at the back of his head was saying, _It took her this long?_

"It's to get at me," whispered Katniss. "Not for information on the rebels. It's to target me, to make me so distracted and in pain that I can't do anything."

Finnick nodded once, shortly. He had no interest in hearing Snow's twisted schemes.

Katniss looked at him. "This is what they're doing to you with Annie, isn't it?" she asked softly.

"Well, they didn't arrest her because they thought she'd be a wealth of rebel information," he said, with a hint of his old sarcasm. "They know I'd never have risked telling her anything like that. For her own protection."

"Oh, Finnick. I'm so sorry," said Katniss, and she meant it.

"No, I'm sorry," he returned, and frowned at his rope. "That I didn't warn you somehow."

"You did warn me, though," said Katniss. "On the hovercraft. Only when you said they'd use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To lure me into the Capitol somehow.

"I shouldn't have said even that," said Finnick shortly, unknotting the rope in one savage pull. "It was too late to be of any help to you. Since I hadn't warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should've shut up about how Snow operates." For Katniss' sake, he tried to keep his voice from being too bitter. Then he sighed. "It's just that I didn't understand when I met you. After your first Games, I thought the whole romance was an act on your part. We all expected you'd continue that strategy. But it wasn't until Peeta hit the force field and nearly died that I – " He stopped, stuck for words.

Katniss waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she prompted, "That you what?"

"That I knew I'd misjudged you," he said. "That you do love him. I'm not saying in what way," he added, clarifying. "Maybe you don't know yourself. But anyone paying attention could see how much you care about him."

He went back to his rope, tying knot after knot after knot, trying to keep himself from falling apart. Katniss was silent next to him, dealing with her own personal demons.

After a while, she asked, "How do you bear it?" As if she was hoping for guidance.

Finnick stared at her incredulously, unable to believe that she was looking to him of all people for the right way to do things. "I don't, Katniss!" he said. "Obviously, I don't. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking."

Even in the dim light, it was clear that _that _look was creeping into her eyes. Finnick quickly backpedaled. "Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart."

Half-closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Finnick watched her struggle with her hurt, and a stab of pain hit him in his own stomach.

"The more you can distract yourself, the better," he said. And though it was difficult beyond measure to give away the thing keeping him in one piece, he held out his hand with the slowly unraveling rope and said, "First thing tomorrow, we'll get you your own rope. Until then, take mine."

"Thank you," said Katniss softly. She took the rope and tiptoed back to her own section.

But now there was nothing for Finnick, nothing to distract him from the dark and the cold and people all around and the gaping ache in his middle that was Annie alone and frightened and hurt in the Ca – the Capi – in their hands. Wrapping his arms around his stomach, he hunched over, battling the physical pain. He did not sleep. He didn't dare to.

* * *

Sometime later – he guessed at maybe three, four in the morning – Evans padded softly over.

"Finnick?" she whispered, and he raised his head, face drawn and white with pain. "Finnick, where's – where's your rope?"

"I gave it to Katniss," he whispered back. "She needs it more than I do."

"Oh." Evans hesitated, then asked, "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

Finnick shook his head. Evans sat next to him where Katniss had, crossing her legs.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" Finnick asked.

Evans almost smiled. "Shouldn't you?"

"I can't," whispered Finnick, resting his chin on his folded arms. "I get such nightmares…"

Evans' hand rubbed up and down his arm soothingly. "It's all right," she said.

"No, it's not," said Finnick. "How can it be? With Annie shut up in there with all those – "

"Shh," said Evans. "Don't think about that."

Finnick buried his head in his arms. After a while, he asked, "Evans?"

"Yes, Finnick?" she said, voice infinitely gentle.

"Will you stay with me?"

"All night, if you want."

* * *

At first, Finnick was confused as Boggs led him, Gale, and Katniss out of the bunkers and up to Special Defense. But then they entered a room very like Command and every thought was wiped out of his head by the blissful aroma of coffee.

The woman was talking, saying something about going above ground to shoot more propos, but Finnick didn't listen to her. Instead he inhaled, sucking in the heavenly scent of the roasted beans that he hadn't smelled since before the Hung – since before he went to the arena…

"Any questions?" asked the woman.

Finnick had one, a very important one. "Can we have a coffee?" he asked.

That first sip was like a religious experience. Finnick drank it slowly, hands cupped around the warmth, until he opened his eyes and realized that Katniss, whom he was sitting next to, was looking at her own steaming cup with a wrinkled nose and narrowed eyes.

Truth be told, the coffee was pretty black. Finnick poured cream into her cup and fished a couple sugar cubes out of the bowl. It reminded him of the first time they'd actually talked to each other, way back when before it all started. He'd been practically naked at the time, too, and unless he was mistaken it had made her pretty uncomfortable. "Want a sugar cube?" he said in his most seductive drawl.

There, that got a smile out of her. Finnick grinned and put three cubes in. "Here, it improves the taste."

But pretty soon Fulvia was hustling him out of the room. Finnick clutched the coffee to his chest and followed her. "Where are we going?"

"Honey, even that handsome face of yours needs a little touching up," she said. They entered a room like a mini-makeup studio and she pushed him down onto a stool. She sighed, bustling around, getting brushes and powder, adjusting the lights on his face so he was half-blinded, and all the time keeping up a running monologue.

"I really wish the president would give us a little notice beforehand," she muttered, testing a brush on the back of her hand. "I mean, it's not like we can just wave a magic wand and everyone's camera ready, though that would be nice. It takes hours just to get Katniss looking presentable. And you!" She stopped in front of Finnick, hands on her hips. "Exactly when was your last haircut?"

"Um…" Finnick squinted up at her. "A while ago?"

"Exactly!" Fulvia started opening drawers and shutting them, looking for something. "If we'd had time I'd have given you a proper haircut, but as it is all I can do is trim the split ends…" Finnick pulled a chunk of his hair and squinted down it in an effort to see the ends.

"Stop that." Fulvia slapped his hand with the flat of her scissor blades. Wincing, Finnick folded his hands together and tried to sit still as Fulvia attacked his hair with a brush, still talking away –

"At least that Hawthorne boy tries to keep himself looking neat. I mean, goodness me, he doesn't need it much, he's so handsome, but you…" Her scissors went _snip-snip_, cutting off little feathery segments of bronze hair. "Well, you're very good-looking too, Finnick, but the fact is you've let yourself go lately. You're simply not the same boy Capitol audiences are used to seeing."

Finnick choked on his coffee, letting out a stifled "Eeep!" Fulvia glared at him suspiciously.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing," gasped Finnick, eyes watering. "Go ahead."

With an impatient snort, she resumed her clipping. "I mean, look at you. Circles under your eyes, and you must have lost five pounds in muscle since you came here. And exactly how often do you shave?"

Finnick ran a hand over his chin, feeling the stubble scratch his hand. "Every two, three days."

"Well, it ought to be more," said Fulvia fussily. "Unfortunately I haven't got any razors or anything here, just these scissors, and better stubble than a cut…and _will_ you sit still!"

Finnick sipped his coffee and tried not to fidget as Fulvia trimmed his hair, dabbed tan-colored liquid under his eyes, and brushed his face with powder.

"There, you're done," she said, sounding far more exasperated than she needed to be. "That took, what, seven minutes? Run along now before Plutarch and the president have my behind on a platter."

Finnick did run along, though he left the empty coffee cup in the room. He caught up with Katniss and the others as her bodyguard opened up a trapdoor. The scent of the fresh air was nice, and Finnick found himself inhaling gratefully. They climbed out, into the browny-green woods. Despite the fact that he was aching for the sea, Finnick found himself appreciating these unfamiliar trees more than he thought possible. It must have been an effect of being underground so long. But although he felt fairly calm and normal, he could sense that it was just a brittle crust, waiting to break so everything underneath could burst through…  
"What day is it?" Katniss asked, running her hands through the light foliage.

"September starts next week," said her bodyguard.

Finnick happened to be looking at her, so he saw her start shaking. He hoped it was just a reaction to the coffee.

They walked through the woods, passing one hella deep crater. The area on top of District Thirteen itself had been bombed into oblivion, leaving nothing but gray ash and black rubble. "How much of an edge did the boy's warning give you?" asked Haymitch. Finnick wondered why he didn't use Peeta's name.

"About ten minutes before our own systems would've detected the missiles," answered Katniss' bodyguard.

For some reason, she looked desperate. "But it did help, right?"

"Absolutely," answered her guard. Finnick felt like he should really learn his name. "Civilian evacuations was completed. Seconds count when you're under attack. Ten minutes meant lives saved."

That was nice. That meant the next time the Ca – they decided to bomb District Thirteen and there was no Peeta to warn them, they wouldn't have enough time to get everyone undercover. Beautiful.

The only building left was the old Justice Building, familiar to Finnick from the many fake District Thirteen broadcasts. As they got closer, Finnick could see pink and red roses scattered all over its steps. Katniss saw them, and her face turned white.

"Don't touch them!" she shouted. "They're for me!"

What the hell?

It turned out it was some sort of twisted warning of Snow's. Finnick paced restlessly while they tried to get Katniss to do a few simple lines – "Just a few quick lines that show you're alive and still fighting," he could hear Cressida saying. But Katniss clearly was upset and jittery, and from more than the coffee. Finnick tried to encourage her, but he felt he wasn't doing a very good job. After all, he realized, anything he said here would most likely be taken out on Annie…

Suddenly he had to swallow back bile. His knees were shaking and he sat down on a chunk of concrete, cold. Those _We Remember_ propos…surely the Ca – the Capi – they had recognized his voice. Had Annie been the one to pay for it?

On the steps, Katniss opened her mouth to say her line, and burst out crying hysterically instead.

"Cut," said Cressida. She looked pained.

"What's wrong with her?" Plutarch, on the other hand, looked puzzled.

"She's figured out how Snow's using Peeta," said Finnick, chin propped on his fists. Could Plutarch really not see that?

The people around them, those with an interest in the Mockingjay and not Katniss, seemed disappointed. But it was Haymitch who went up to Katniss, embracing her with a tenderness Finnick wouldn't have thought possible from the aging, bitter drunkard.

Within a few minutes, Katniss' sobs had turned to hysterics. Someone mercifully drugged her and put her out. Finnick avoided looking at her limp body as Haymitch and Boggs laid her down on the leafy floor.

Taking a deep breath, Plutarch ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Well, that settles it," he said. "Guess we'll have to rescue Peeta and the others after all."

Finnick stared at him, icy cold all over. What did he mean, _after all?_

"Finnick?" Cressida was looking at him warily. "Finnick, are you all right?"

"What are you talking about?" Finnick breathed to Plutarch, ignoring her. "Weren't you going to rescue them anyway? On the hovercraft, you said you were starting rescue efforts right away!"

Plutarch looked highly uncomfortable. "Well, we would have liked to, but once we got to Thirteen President Coin wouldn't let us unless it was absolutely necessary…and I guess now it is – "

Finnick lost it.

"You f—king bastard!" he screamed, voice cracking. "You let them keep Annie there – "

"No – no, Finnick!"

" – after you f—king _promised_!" And Finnick launched himself at the older man, shouting curses, and he didn't care what he did as long as he hurt Plutarch as badly as he could. Again and again he sank his bony fists into Plutarch's flesh, fighting against the hard arms that tried to restrain him, screaming and swearing at the top of his lungs to drown out the sound of someone calling for a tranquilizer –

The last thing he was conscious of was the flash of pain as the cold needle stabbed into his arm.

* * *

Finnick jerked awake with a wild cry, chest heaving. He was falling apart, he could feel it – bits of himself were spinning away into nothingness, he was breaking into pieces like a shattered china doll –

"No!" he screamed, choking. "Oh God – NO!" He cried out again in the dark, incapacitated by the agony of feeling himself separate into a thousand little parts, his hands clutching the twisted sheets and his face half-buried in his pillow as he futilely tried to smother his throat-tearing screams.

"Finnick!" Evans burst in and ran to him. "Finnick – "

"I can't help it," he gasped, body rigid, sweat running down his torso. "I'm falling into pieces – "

"Shh, it's all right – "

"HELP ME!" he screamed.

Evans seized his hand and held it tightly as he curled into a ball, racked by torment. Finnick held on so tightly he new it must be hurting her, but she never slackened the pressure of her own hand, anchoring him as he gasped and struggled through the endless minutes, fighting the pain of having pieces of his very identity crack and fall away…

At last it was over. Finnick drew in a shaky breath and lessened the pressure on Evans' hand. He could feel her flex her fingers between his.

"Sorry," he said. His voice was a cracked whisper.

"It's all right," said Evans softly. She took his hand in both of hers, holding it firmly. Finnick, still scrunched up in a ball, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He realized that the sheets were soaked in his sweat.

"The old nightmare?" asked Evans.

Finnick nodded. "It was worse that time," he whispered. "I could feel the pieces of me slipping away…"

Evans' hands tightened on his and he stared up at her desperately. "Am I going mad?"

"No, you're not," she said firmly. "Your mind is just going through stress, that's all."  
"But if this keeps getting worse – "

"It won't," said Evans. "Not if you keep fighting it."

Finnick swallowed hard and nodded. For a long while he lay still, feeling the tremors that were running through his body gradually slow.

Finger ran through his disheveled, sweaty hair, smoothing out the tangles. "You need a haircut," said Evans.

Finnick smiled a tiny, tiny bit. "Fulvia said the same thing."

"Well, she's got one thing right." Evans continued stroking his hair. "You could use a shave, too. Otherwise Annie might not recognize you when she gets back."

Opening his eyes, Finnick looked up at her. "Evans – what Plutarch said – "

"I know." For the first time, Finnick heard real anger in her voice. "I can't believe it."

"What will she be like?" whispered Finnick. "My God, Evans, she's been in there for over a month…"

"She will need you to help her," said Evans. "And you can't do that if you're falling apart, can you?"

"No," said Finnick, letting out a long, slow breath. "I can't."


	9. I Will Catch You and Never Let You Go

Someone was shaking Finnick's shoulder. He wished they'd stop and let him sleep.

"Hey, Finnick, wake up," said whoever it was. "Please? I want to talk to you."

Finnick groaned into the pillow and told the person to leave him alone. It came out as "Mff mhf mffhm."

"Finnick, I know you're awake."

Grumbling silently, he pushed himself up on his hands. Squinting through his hair, he saw he was in a room totally unfamiliar to him. Panicking, he looked to the person who had roused him.

"Katniss," he said in relief. Then, "You are Katniss, aren't you?"

She looked puzzled. "Who else would I be?"

"Thank God." Finnick flopped back down on the bed, this time on his back. "I thought I'd forgotten everything again."

Katniss sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed, tucking her feet under her legs. Finnick looked around him, puzzled. He was lying in a bed with rubber curtains (gray, of course) on either side of him. The room was too plain to be living quarters, but neither did it have the feel of a hospital room.

"Where are we?" he asked. He spotted his rope on the bedside table and tied it around his wrist.

Katniss glanced up, fiddling with the end of her braid. "Temporary shelters. Everything on the upper levels was damaged by the bombs." She flashed him an odd, searching look. "Did you know that Boggs – my security guard – and the others went to rescue Peeta and Annie already?"

"WHAT?" yelped Finnick, leaping out of bed. "Jesus, why doesn't anyone tell me anything!" He yanked his pants on frantically, hoping there was still a chance to catch up with them –

"Save it, Finnick," said Katniss dully. "I already talked to Haymitch. They'll never let us go, and besides, they're too far away already."

"But – " Finnick turned to stare at her, eyes wide, hair falling in his face. "Doesn't he realize how important this is to us? Why weren't we woken up? I have to be there!"

"I know," said Katniss. She looked like he felt, with tangled hair and circles under her red-rimmed eyes. "But apparently it's out of the question."

"Sh-t," breathed Finnick, sitting back down on the bed. He scrubbed his face with his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes so all he saw was darkness…He didn't think Plutarch, Haymitch, or Boggs understood how desperately he had to be the one to go save Annie, to take her safely home and make sure all the others treated her right. Otherwise they would have let him go.

"Gale went, too," said Katniss. "I don't think I could stand it if I – if I lost both of them."

Finnick raised his head to look at her. She was staring into the middle distance with an expression of equal parts desperation and dread. "He's not really your cousin, is he?" asked Finnick.

"Who?"

"Gale."

"Oh." Her eyes darted to his face and away, down to her lap. "No, he's not my cousin."

Finnick ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it out of his face. Looking back at the bedside table, he saw a folded piece of paper with his name written on it in a round script. Frowning, he picked it up and flicked it open.

It was a short note from Evans. _I'm sorry, I've had to leave for a few days. We're needed in District Eleven…I wanted to stay, but you know how President Coin gets. Don't worry, I'll be back soon. I look forward to meeting your Annie._

Finnick sighed, folding the note back up and carefully placing it in the exact same position he had found it in. His manic energy of earlier was fading away under a new, more fatalistic mindset.

Leaning back on his hands, he looked over at Katniss and tweaked the corner of his mouth up. Her dark eyebrows met. "What?"

"Don't you see, Katniss, this will decide things," he said. A strange little bubble of desperate hope was growing inside him. "One way or the other. By the end of the day, they'll either be dead or with us. It's…it's more than we could hope for!"

He never wanted to think about Annie dead. Not now. Not ever. But better death than living in constant pain. Finnick had no doubt that a soul as bright and pure as Annie's would be rewarded with something better in death than what had been dealt her in life. She deserved it.

The rubber curtains were jerked open, revealing Haymitch's unshaven face. "I have a job for you kids, if you can pull it together," he said. Finnick nodded, hoping he didn't look too wild. "We still need some post-bombing footage of Thirteen. If we can get it in the next few hours, Beetee can air it leading up to the rescue, and maybe keep the Capitol's attention elsewhere."

"Yes," said Finnick. A nervous excitement began to tingle up and down his limbs. "A distraction. A decoy of sorts."

"What we really need is something so riveting that even President Snow won't be able to tear himself away. Got anything like that?"

Hell yes.

As Finnick downed a hasty breakfast (mindful of the fact he would need ballast, even though he wasn't hungry at all), as he sat still under Fulvia's brushes, as he made his way aboveground, he was remembering. He was dredging out of his brain not visions of silky hair and laughing eyes, or jungles lit by flashes of lightning, but all the dark and disturbing secrets he had been hearing for eight years now, his dubious reward for nights spent in the beds of people who neither knew nor cared what he was going through. All through Katniss' tale of how she met Peeta, he sat hunched over on a chunk of rock, elbows on his knees and face in his hands – remembering.

Katniss ended, looking relieved that it was over. Plutarch hurried over to Finnick, beckoning Haymitch over. "Finnick – you know what you're going to say?"

Finnick looked up at him with a half-smile. "What do you think I've been sitting here for all this time?"

Haymitch frowned. "What exactly – "

Plutarch cut him off, waving his big hands. "Something that will keep every citizen in the Capitol, including Coriolanus Snow, glued to their televisions. Haymitch, for once your girl on fire won't be stealing the show."

"I still don't – "

This time it was Finnick who interrupted him, standing up. "I learned quite a lot about what goes on under the Capitol's painted surface while I was there," he said quietly.

The lines in Haymitch's face deepened, and Finnick realized he was concerned – about Finnick himself. But it was Plutarch he spoke to.

"How dare you ask something like this of him?" he snapped. "Hasn't he been through enough already without having to do this to?"

"It's my decision," said Finnick. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't think I wasn't strong enough."

"Yes, you would," said Haymitch. "You'd jump off a cliff if you thought it would help Annie. Strong enough! Look at you – you're white as a sheet and you're holding that rope so tightly it's cutting into your skin."

Finnick was. He hadn't realized it.

"Well, Finnick?" said Plutarch, with an unsettling avidity in his face. "Will you do it?"

Swallowing hard, Finnick nodded. He avoided Haymitch's eyes as he walked over to the fallen pillar that Katniss had been sitting on, but the one-time victor went with him. "You don't have to do this," he said in an undertone.

"Yes, I do," said Finnick, clenching his rope in his fist. "If it will help her." Haymitch still looked unhappy, but he backed off. "I'm ready."

Behind the camera, Cressida nodded to him. Finnick took a deep breath and began.

"President Snow used to…sell me…my body, that is." His voice was dead, remote, as he focused on keeping himself in one piece. "I wasn't the only one. If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money."

Bitterness began to creep into his voice. "If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it. I wasn't the only one, but I was the most popular. And perhaps the most defenseless, because the people I loved were so defenseless." His voice shook slightly and he hurried on. "To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment."

Katniss' eyes met his, and he was sure she was thinking of what he had told her that first day when they met.

"Secrets," he said. He could see his reflection in the glossy black lens of the camera, and there was a dangerous light growing in his eyes. "And this is where you're going to want to stay turned, President Snow, because so very many of them were about you. But let's begin with some of the others.

"Take Aeschylus Fairtree. I'm sure you know him, he's a great philanthropist who runs a home for orphaned children in his spare time…but I know why he's got such an interest in those small children, and it isn't out of the goodness of his heart…"

On and on the list went, every horrible thing he had heard. As he spoke, not caring that his throat was dry or his hands shaking, he began to feel better. Cleaner. Like the secrets were a pile of muck and sludge that he had carried within him all these years, and now he was purging it from his body.

At last, he reached the subject he knew everyone was waiting to hear about. "And now, on to our good President Coriolanus Snow," he said. "Such a young man when he rose to power." He spoke in a smooth drawl, voice and expression dripping with sarcasm. "Such a clever one to keep it. How, you must ask yourself, did he do it? One word. That's all you really need to know. _Poison._"

His eyes narrowed and he continued with a hardened visage and a voice that rippled with his hate for that man. "He started as an undersecretary in the Department of Security, but made sure to kiss the department director's ass, so that when the secretary to the director _conveniently_ dropped off of food poisoning, Snow was right there to take the job…"

If what he had held back about the citizens of the Ca – of that place had been muck, then this was vitriol – pure acid that stung him on the way up but burned and scalded all those it fell on.

Finnick talked himself hoarse. It was only a lack of further information that stopped him from continuing to rip the president to shreds. When he finally fell silent, his physically-present audience sat spellbound. Katniss' prep team looked stunned – and greedily fascinated. Plutarch wore a remarkably similar expression, though there was something else in it that Finnick couldn't identify. The film crew was wide-eyed and pale. Nobody moved until Finnick cleared his throat and said, "Cut."

It was like the words to end a magic spell. Everyone began moving, talking. The film crew rushed off to edit. Finnick, standing up, glanced at Katniss, wondering if she wanted him to stay with her, but Plutarch came over and put a heavy arm around his shoulders.

"Finnick!" he said. "Come and walk with me?"

Finnick acquiesced, assuming Plutarch just wanted more details on Ca – on Capi – on their atrocities. But Plutarch did not speak as they walked away from the others into the trees.

They stopped with the ruins of Thirteen just in sight through the branches. His arm was still an uncomfortable weight on Finnick's shoulders; he wanted to shrug it off but felt that would be rude.

"Well, well, Finnick," sighed Plutarch. "I have to say, that was impressive. Very impressive. I'm surprised you've remembered all that."

"Some things stick into your brain, even when you don't want them too," said Finnick wryly.

"Oh, I know, but…" Plutarch sighed, looking out at the dying forest. "Wasn't there anything about the Capitol you enjoyed?"

"Some things," said Finnick with grudging honesty. "Not all the people were horrible – though they were all a bit spoiled and stupid. And…it could be pretty. If you just looked at the outside."

Plutarch laughed. "My boy, that's the most backhanded compliment I've ever heard." He shifted his weight on his feet; whether he intended it or not, the action moved him closer to Finnick, who resisted an impulse to squirm away. "What about Thirteen?"

"I hate it here," said Finnick bluntly. "There's nothing here for me. And I can never forget the reason I had to come here in the first place."

The words reminded him of Plutarch and Haymitch first telling him of Thirteen's existence…and of Plutarch's failed promise. Simmering anger began to rise within Finnick.

"Why?" he asked, and the change in his tone was so abrupt that Plutarch turned his head to stare at him. "Why did you lie to me like that?"

"About what?"

"About rescuing Annie. Even if you were told that you couldn't do it…why didn't you tell me right away?"

"Finnick, my boy, you were ill – psychologically distraught – "

"You still should have told me!" said Finnick, voice rising. A breeze rustled through the otherwise silent woods.

Plutarch sighed. "Finnick, you've been through a lot – and no one's denying what you've suffered – but the fact of the matter is there's a lot of things in this world that you still don't understand – "

"That's a bullsh-t excuse," snapped Finnick, twisting out from under Plutarch's arm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Plutarch had large blue eyes, but they were pale, and watery. The heavy folds of his sagging skin framed them like curtains around a window.

"I know why," said Finnick, when Plutarch didn't answer. "Because you're a coward."

"No – how dare you – "

"A coward!" shouted Finnick. "You're yellow, just like the rest of them who are happy to sit all day in their fancy houses and gorge themselves and watch children get murdered like it's all a game!"

"Now, Finnick – that is a ridiculous – I have _never_ condoned the Hunger Games – "

Finnick tossed his head back, letting out a harsh bark of laughter. "_You_! You're the Head Gamemaker!"

"Now see here – I designed it so that you and the others could have a fighting chance of getting out alive – "

"Yeah, right," said Finnick. "Don't tell me you enjoyed coming up with those torments. The blood rain – the _jabberjays_ – they had to come out of someone's sick mind – "

"That 'someone' was President Snow!" retorted Plutarch angrily, whose face was growing red. "Don't insult me unless you have some idea of what you're talking about!"

"And if I don't, whose fault is that?" demanded Finnick. "Everyone, you and the woman and Haymitch, they all seem so goddamned determined to keep us in the dark! _Why?_ What is it they don't want us to know?"

They stared at each other for a long time. Finnick's chest was heaving, his hands balled in fists at his side; Plutarch was staring at him like he'd never seen him before.

"We're hiding nothing," he said at last. Quietly, gruffly. "Nothing. And I'm not going to pretend accusations like that don't hurt me."

He turned away and began to walk back to the trapdoor that would take them back underground. Finnick stared at him, hair ruffled slightly by the breeze, the sky a leaden gray above them.

* * *

Finnick stood behind Beetee's chair, Katniss at his side. In front of them was a large TV screen; all around them were desks and screens and people talking into headphones or typing frantically on large, complex keyboards. Beetee himself was watching the little red digits on a clock at the bottom corner of the large screen.

"Right," he said tersely. "Everyone at their positions?"

There was a general chorus of assent from the gathered technicians. Beetee twisted in his chair to speak to Finnick and Katniss. "You two, go to the back of the room," he said. "Don't get in anyone's way. And try to keep silent."

Finnick nodded. There was a hard, tense knot in his throat that made it difficult to get any saliva down. It wasn't, he thought as he picked his way to a dark corner in the back with Katniss, that he was worried about what Snow would do to him once he heard his account of his past misdeeds. It was what he might do to Annie.

_She's safe,_ he thought to himself, eyes closed. _Either this will distract everyone so that Boggs and the others can get her out safely, or it won't matter because she'll be dead in a few hours anyway. There's nothing Snow can do to her anymore. She's safe. That's what matters._

"All right," called Beetee. He was dwarfed by the enormous stretch of electric panels and controls in front of him, and even more so by the TV screen looming on the wall above. "Do we have access?"

"Got it," called a technician – a young woman.

"Fifteen seconds!" shouted another one. "Fifteen seconds to play time!"

Finnick impulsively gripped Katniss' hand. She glanced up at him, as tense with anticipation as he was.

"Access still holding – "

"Ten seconds – "

"Everyone, remain calm," said Beetee. "Remember what this is for – "

"Seven seconds – "

" – and good luck!"

"Five seconds – four – three – two – one – "

"Play!"

And thus began an hour-long media battle. Either Beetee and his team had gotten better at hacking, or the Capitol was more interested in hearing what Finnick had said to block it all out, because the District Thirteen team was dominating the screen time. There was a constant babble of talking as the technicians relayed instructions and news back and forth. But Finnick wasn't interested in hearing the propo (he'd said it all already, hadn't he?). He was fascinated by his own appearance.

As narcissistic as that seemed, it was true. The man Finnick saw on the screen was not the person who had rushed home when he heard of the Quarter Quell. His hair, ragged despite all of Fulvia's efforts, fell down to his shoulders now. His face looked gaunt, drawn – but not tired. Instead it was tight with a fierce energy that burned in a pair of green eyes that looked as hard as diamond. Stubble coated his jaw and chin, nearly invisible against the skin that had managed to retain a tan despite over a month underground. There was a fell, savage expression on his face – compelling, but also chilling.

_That's me,_ thought Finnick. _That's what I look like now. _

And suddenly it frightened him. He couldn't see any trace of the Finnick he'd thought he was in that face on the screen. Where was his old, easygoing humor, he thought in bewilderment. Sure, he could be sarcastic sometimes, but underneath it all he'd always thought he was a decent person…

Finnick was glad when the propo finished and Beetee let go of the broadcast control.

* * *

There was nothing left to do but wait.

Finnick sat with Katniss in the little room in the middle of Special Defense, surrounded by green grass and hummingbirds that flitted by, ignorant of what Finnick and Katniss were suffering. All Finnick could do was tie knots, over and over. His fingers, callused from years of working in District Four, did not blister like Katniss', but the tendons and muscles could still get sore. And they did. But he kept at it – because it was the only way to keep his mind off of Annie.

Whenever he thought of her, he could feel the pieces starting to crack and fall away. It was better to shut down his thought processes entirely, to only experience things through the swift movement of fingers and the scrape of hemp on his skin.

He could stop thinking for seconds, and maybe minutes, but not hours. At last the nervous anticipation and sick fear and cold dread overwhelmed him he cast his rope away, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them. He felt sick and was glad he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and then only a little.

"Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?" asked Katniss.

"No." With that one quiet syllable, Finnick left District Thirteen and suddenly it was five years ago and he was a mentor in Annie's Hunger Games, helpless to do anything while she was broken, and gradually realizing that she meant much more to him than anyone else…

Gasping slightly, and with tears in his eyes, he pulled himself out of the memories. "She crept up on me," he said to Katniss, once he was sure he could control his voice.

Katniss did nod respond. Finnick turned his head slightly, looked at her through the gap in his arms. She was pale, her eyes lowered on her rope and her mouth set in a taught line.

More hours passed. Finnick did not sleep. He couldn't. He felt sick, and cold, and tired. It was surely the longest night of his life, longer than infinity, because every second seemed an hour long and there was nothing to mark any change, not a dim in the lights nor a pause in the incessant winging of the hummingbirds, as if Time had gone on and just left him there…

With a noise that sounded loud as cannonfire after the hours of silence, Haymitch opened the door. Finnick lurched to his feet, muscles protesting. His entire future seemed to be hanging on the words about to come out of Haymitch's lips –

"They're back. We're wanted in the hospital. That's all I know."

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Finnick couldn't think. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He let Katniss take his hand, leading him through the hallways that he didn't see. After weeks of yearning to see Annie, of wanting to hold her so badly it tore holes right through him, all he could feel was dread. Because no one lived through a month in their hands unscathed. All he could think of was swans being stripped of their wings, mermaids and selkies with their fins ripped off…

Oh _God_.

As they passed through a door, there was more noise, more people. Finnick realized they were in the hospital, and his heart began to pound so hard, so fast, it was choking him. Johanna Mason was rushed past them on a stretcher, unconscious and abused, her hair shaved off, and Finnick nearly passed out. If Annie was in the same state…

Katniss shouted something, left him. Finnick's vision seemed to be blurring.

And then Annie called his name.

His heart stopped but the rest of his body leapt forward. He didn't care that there were people in the way, watching, because Annie cried his name again and was running towards him and at last, _at last_ she was in his arms and he was holding her as close as he dared for someone so fragile, his heart bursting and his breath gone and the tears running down his face, and he thought, _If I could choose my death, it would be this._ Annie was holding him, tightly, so tightly he could barely breathe, but he was glad because it meant she was strong enough to do so. The hard wall pressed into his back and he folded Annie ever closer to him, his head bent next to hers, her hair brushing his ear and his tears falling warm on the bare skin of her shoulder, and she was gasping and crying like him, and over and over he breathed her name like it was the sweetest song in the world, because it was…

"Finnick," sobbed Annie into his chest. "Oh, Finnick!"

"I'm here," he whispered, voice breaking. "Don't worry, mermaid, I'm here…you're safe…"

She continued to weep and he cradled her, one hand on the back of her head, and he kissed her hair again and again, wishing he could smooth all the tangles and snarls out with the touch of his lips. Nurses and doctors were passing by, but Finnick did not notice them and they left him and Annie alone.

With a shuddering sigh, Annie stopped crying. Gently, Finnick tilted her chin up so she was looking in his eyes, brushing a tear off her cheek with his thumb. There were tiny red pinpricks all along her hairline and a shadow of a bruise was on one cheekbone, but Finnick did not look for physical injuries. He was searching her eyes as if he could see through them to her soul, looking for…_that_ look.

And he couldn't find it. Finnick gasped with joy, tears coming to his eyes. Annie reached up to brush his hair out of his face, and the eyes that looked at him with such love and joy, the eyes that sparkled with tears like the ocean on a sunny day, were shadowed with pain and fear but were not the haunted, dull, lifeless orbs he had dreaded seeing. They had taken Annie…but they had not broken her.

"Oh, Annie," he choked, and pulled her against him again. There was no need for words as they simply held each other, her arms wrapped around his waist, his cheek resting on her hair, their hearts beating together, their breasts rising and falling together. Finnick lowered his head, lips brushing Annie's temple, and she exhaled happily.

"I love you," she whispered, breath fluttering against the skin of his throat. Finnick tightened his arms, eyes closed, the side of his face pressed against hers.

"I love you too," he managed to whisper. "So…so, much…"

Someone nearby softly cleared their throat. "Um…Soldier Odair?"

Finnick opened his eyes and raised his head, blinking back tears as he saw the black-skinned medical attendant standing a couple of feet away, twisting his hands together. Annie hitched up the sheet wrapped under her arms and turned her head to look at him as well, secure in the circle of Finnick's arms. "Yes?" said Finnick hoarsely.

"I'm sorry, Soldier Odair, but Miss Cresta will have to come with me…"

Finnick's arms automatically pulled her closer as she gasped, clutching his shirt. "Why?" asked Finnick, chin raised aggressively.

"I'm sorry, Soldier, but she needs to be examined – "

"Can't that wait?" demanded Finnick, tightening his grip on Annie, who had shuddered and turned her face into his chest at the word _examine._ "Didn't you already do that on the hovercraft?"

"Well, yes, but it was very basic, and Dr. Aurelius feels a more comprehensive one is necessary to assess the full extent of any damage done – "

A tall man with gray in his dirty blond hair and blue eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses came forward, placing a hand on the attendant's shoulder. "Let them be, Dorian."

The black man nodded and withdrew. The other held his hand out to Finnick. "Dr. Aurelius."

Finnick cautiously lifted one hand from Annie and shook the doctor's, briefly. "Finnick Odair."

"I know." The doctor half-smiled, creasing the side of his face into laugh lines. "We've met before, though I doubt you would remember – you were unconscious." His eyes flicked up and down Finnick and Annie, taking in their expressions, their intertwined figures. "I take it you two don't want to be separated tonight?"

Finnick shook his head vigorously, and Annie found her tongue. "Not at all, Doctor," she said, voice shaking slightly.

Dr. Aurelius smiled, turned away, and beckoned a nurse over, giving her instructions in an undertone. The nurse nodded, her eyes flicking to Finnick and Annie. Then she walked over to the two of them.

"If you could follow me, please?" she said. Finnick pulled away from the wall and walked after her, one arm wrapped securely around Annie. Both of her arms remained twined around his waist; with his free hand he held her elbow, brushing his thumb up and down the smooth skin. They followed the nurse down a hallway into a hospital room with two beds. The sight of sheets and pillows made Finnick realize how much sleep he hadn't gotten and he swayed on his feet.

"This is your room for tonight," said the nurse. Finnick relinquished his hold on Annie and looked away as the nurse helped her into a hospital gown and bed, attached a saline drip to her arm, but then he sat on the edge of the bed, taking Annie's fingers in his own hand and rubbing them. Finnick and Annie simply gazed at each other, and Finnick knew Annie was drinking him in as he was absorbing every particle of her.

"There." The nurse paused, possibly for their approval, but neither Finnick nor Annie was paying attention to her. "If you need anything, just call." Her finger tapped a little red button above the head of Annie's pillow.

Finnick nodded, not looking away from Annie. The nurse hesitated, then left. As the door closed behind her, Annie let out a slow, measured breath.

"I knew I'd see you again," she whispered. "I knew somehow, you'd save me…But why couldn't you come with the others?"

"I was ill," said Finnick quietly. "I was messed-up, too…" Someday he'd tell her about Riley's death, if she hadn't seen it during her capture. But not tonight. Not for a while.

Annie's hand tightened on his and she managed a wistful smile. "It doesn't really matter," she said. "As long as we're together."

"Yes," said Finnick. He blinked wearily, but was determined not to sleep. He couldn't let Annie out of his sight now, for fear he would wake up and find her gone.

Annie's eyelids were drifting shut, too, but she started and jerked them open, hand clutching Finnick's.

"Annie?" She swallowed, staring at him, and he took her other hand reassuringly. "Mermaid, what is it?"

Annie took a deep breath, face pale. "I'm so afraid to sleep," she whispered. "I have such nightmares…I haven't slept in so long…"

Augh, it was like his heart was breaking…Finnick raised her hands to his lips, kissing her fingers. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm here. You're safe. Nothing can hurt you."

Annie's lip quivered. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," he promised.

She swallowed hard and attempted a smile. "Okay, then." Then, "Will you tell me a story?"

So Finnick told her the story of the Princess-Under-the-Waves, watching her eyelids gently drift and close like leaves falling off a tree. The light switch was close on the wall; he reached over and turned the lights out, never once letting go of her hand.

There was enough illumination coming through under the door to let him see. He was content to merely watch Annie, to see the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips parted slightly with every breath, the faint gleam of light on her hair and the way her eyelashes looked like dark smudges on the smooth skin of her cheeks….The blinking blue figures on the little clock next to the bed told him it was a quarter past one, but even dreaming of Annie was a poor substitute for her living, breathing reality…

There was a light tap on the door. Finnick turned his head to see Gale, of all people, open it. "The doc sent me to check if everything's all right," he said in a low voice.

Finnick nodded. "Everything's fine." Gale was about to leave when Finnick forestalled him with a question. "Gale…what did they do to her?"

It was the last thing he wanted to know, to hear…but still, he had to ask.

Gale sighed and came back in the room, pulling up a stool to sit next to Finnick. "Electroshock," he said. "Thousands of tiny needles…" He gestured to the hundreds of tiny marks dotted along Annie's hairline and collarbone.

Finnick swallowed hard, clutching her hand. "That's…horrible," he choked.

"I know," said Gale grimly. "Still, it could have been worse. Look it at Johanna…look at Peeta."

"What's wrong with Peeta?"

"They've…hacked his brain or something. With trackerjacker venom. Now he's convinced Katniss is the enemy." He shifted his bandaged shoulder uncomfortably.

Finnick was speechless. The idea more than horrified him, it appalled him…With a sudden pang in his gut, he thought of Katniss. What it must be like to expect a lover's embrace, and instead find only hate…

"I can't believe they can do that," he muttered.

"There's no telling what some people won't stop at," said Gale. "Especially to someone defenseless, helpless…"

Finnick had another question, but this one was so much harder to ask, because he dreaded the answer so much more… "Gale," he began, "the electroshocks…is that all they did?"

Gale turned to him, frowning. "I think so," he said. "Why? What else?"

Finnick met his eyes, swallowing. He couldn't get the word out, but Gale understood and said it for him. "Rape?"

Looking down, Finnick nodded. Gale let out a long breath, shifting his weight on the stool. "I don't know, Finnick. I wish I could say no, but…I just don't know."

Finnick nodded again, blinking back tears. Dear God, he hoped…he didn't think he could stand it if…

Gale's eyes were flicking from him to the double beds. "You two don't sleep together?" he asked in a low voice.

Finnick shook his head. "Cheap sex is something I've always associated with the Capitol," he quietly. "I didn't want our relationship tainted by that."

"But don't you want her?"

"Yes," said Finnick. "More than anything. I love her. But I'm going to wait for her, until she's ready. I'm not going to push her…"

"Why not? Maybe she just doesn't know – "

"Gale, her first experience with sex was nearly getting raped in the arena by Silas," said Finnick angrily. "What do you think that did to her? I'm waiting until she says it's time, I don't care how long."

"There's not many guys that would do that," said Gale seriously.

"Yeah, well," said Finnick tersely. He was tired, and worn out emotionally, and why the hell were they having this conversation anyway?

After a while, Gale spoke again. "You're a good guy, Finnick," he said. "I wish I'd gotten to know you sooner."

Finnick laughed shortly. "There wasn't a whole lot of me to know for a while."

"All the same…"

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Gale sighed and stood. "If I don't get some rest, I'll probably end up tied to my bed for the next week…Night, Finnick."

"Night." Finnick nodded to him, but as the door opened and shut he had already turned back to Annie. He could still hardly believe she was here…

His eyelids were so, so heavy. Finnick lay down, curling himself up to fit around Annie, her hand in his drawn up to his collarbone. _I won't sleep,_ he thought muzzily, his eyes resting on her face. _I'll just lie down for a bit…

* * *

_

The nurse knocked gently on the door the next morning, but there was no answer. Quietly, she cracked it open. Finnick lay next to Annie on the narrow bed, nearly falling off, his hand loosely twined with hers and his eyes shut. Their breathing was deep, peaceful, synchronized.

Smiling, the nurse withdrew and silently shut the door.


	10. We'll Be Okay

_Disclaimer: Quite a bit more swearing in this one. But it's warranted - at least, I think it is. Also a fairly uncomfortable scene about 2/3 of the way in. Just letting everyone know.

* * *

_

Gradually, Finnick became aware that he was no longer asleep, but floating in that dreamy state between consciousness and oblivion. It was extremely comfortable. He was content to simply lie there, his eyes closed, breathing slowly, with a gentle touch tracing the features of his face…

Finnick opened his eyes and found himself looking into a sea of turquoise, surrounded by white shell and brown silk. He blinked, and Annie's face came into focus. She smiled sweetly, fingers brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"Morning, sleepy," she said.

Finnick smiled back. "Morning," he said. He felt rested, more whole and at peace than he had in what seemed like forever, and he was in little doubt why…He lifted his hand and cupped Annie's chin in it, resting his thumb against her lower lip. Annie kissed the tip of his thumb, and Finnick let out a deep sigh that seemed to come from his toes and carry all his tension out with it.

Annie smiled, showing her teeth. "What was that for?"

Finnick shook his head against the pillow. "You don't know how much I've missed you," he whispered.

Annie's expression was clouded briefly by sadness. Then she moved her head the last couple of inches and pressed her lips to Finnick's.

She tasted like sugar, and rain-washed petals, and over a month of loneliness and heartache. Her fingers twined in Finnick's hair and he pulled her closer, lips parted, and breathed in the sweet smell of her skin that he thought he'd lost forever.

* * *

The hallway outside of Dr. Aurelius' examination room was cold and unfriendly, tiled and walled in stark white, the fluorescent lights of the ceiling casting everything in bluish-white. Finnick leaned against the wall with his arms folded, fingers drumming nervously on his biceps, one foot propped up behind him and his heart pounding in his chest….

The door opened and Finnick jerked away from the wall so quickly he staggered. The blonde nurse's lips twitched. "You can come in, Soldier Odair," she said, and Finnick nearly tripped over his feet in his effort to enter quickly.

Annie wasn't on the cushioned examination couch-thingy; she wasn't in the room at all. Finnick turned to Dr. Aurelius. "Where's Annie?"

Dr. Aurelius started pulling off his latex gloves. "Getting dressed," he said, smiling slightly. "Don't worry, you'll have her back." He stepped on the little pedal at the foot of the trash can, opening the lid, and dropped the gloves in.

Finnick swallowed and, for lack of a more convenient seat, sat down on the examination couch, drumming his heels on the stainless steel supports. "Well?" he said.

Dr. Aurelius turned from the notes he was scribbling. "She has no permanent injuries, you'll be pleased to hear," he said. "I don't think I need to go into details about what was done to her, but she has suffered more from malnutrition and exhaustion more than anything else." His blue eyes met Finnick's steadily through his glasses. "And she was not raped."

"Thank you," breathed Finnick, closing his eyes. Dr. Aurelius smiled understandingly before returning to his report.

"As far as her mental and emotional state goes, I think you can assess that better than I can. But there seems to be little physical evidence of trauma – at least, as little as can be expected. I don't think you'll find her much worse than she was when you left her."

"But why?" asked Finnick, a frown appearing between his eyes. "It's not that I'm not grateful – believe me, I couldn't be more relieved – but I don't understand. I thought it would destroy her…"

"Maybe she's not as fragile as you think she is," said Dr. Aurelius quietly. Finnick looked at him sharply, but the older man did not look sarcastic or critical. "Finnick, there is a surprising amount of resiliency in even the most damaged human being. I know you hit rock bottom this month. But maybe Annie's already been there, and she's on the path to recovery."

Finnick laughed ruefully. "So, now I might be the mad one and she's okay?"

Dr. Aurelius shrugged, one side of his mouth lifted. "I wouldn't call either of you 'mad,'" he said. "And if by 'okay,' you mean untouched as you were before any of this happened, I don't think that's a possibility. But with each other's help, the two of you should be able to lead perfectly normal, healthy lives."

"Maybe," said Finnick darkly. "You're forgetting one thing."

Surprise flitted across Dr. Aurelius' face. "What's that?"

Finnick eyed him, one eyebrow arched. "Surely our little rebellion hasn't slipped your mind?"

The doctor shrugged again, turning slightly away. "I'm afraid to say it hasn't," he said. Then his eyes flashed up to Finnick's, steely and hard. "Though I daresay both of us wish it would?"

Finnick nodded, meeting his gaze. Suddenly he realized what it must be like for the doctor, any doctor, having to spend his life patching up wounded bodies and broken souls…

"Doctor," he said hesitantly, "why did you leave the Capitol?"

Dr. Aurelius smiled ruefully. "Remember when Katniss attributed her detection of the forcefield to the work of Capitol surgeons?" Finnick bobbed his head, not willing to push his memory too far.

"I was the doctor that fixed her ear."

* * *

Evans returned late, late a couple of nights later.

Finnick was sitting in Annie's hospital room, watching her sleep. He had soon discovered that unless he was there to hold her hand and tell her stories, she would not drop off but instead lie restlessly, tossing and turning, until at last she would fall into an uneasy slumber from which she would wake fevered and disoriented. It was one of the new facets of her madness – or "psychological distress," as Dr. Aurelius liked to term it – that Finnick was getting used to. Annie would have moments sometimes where her eyes would focus on something else entirely and only the touch of Finnick's hand or the sound of his voice could call her back to reality.

The worst of these moments had been triggered by a shouting match between two doctors. Annie had clamped her hands over her ears and almost completely shut down. It had taken Finnick nearly half an hour to coax her out of her nightmare state. By that time, his heart had been a bleeding mess.

But he bore it, for her sake. And anytime these new habits worried or disturbed him, he reminded himself not only of what she had been through, but what he had suffered as well, his nightmare-ridden and amnesia-plagued first weeks in District Thirteen. _We'll be okay,_ Finnick reminded himself constantly. _Everything will turn out all right._

He wasn't thinking that now, though, as he sat on the stool by Annie's bed with one foot propped sideways on his knee. His chronic nightmares had been replaced by insomnia, and so Finnick was spending his nights usually in rapturous contemplation of Annie. He had a pencil and notebook in his hand – he was supposed to be brainstorming new propo ideas for Plutarch – but after about fifteen minutes he had stopped even pretending to try and instead simply sat there, absorbing Annie's presence.

So attuned was he to her soft breathing that he barely heard the light tap at the door. Moving as silently as possible, Finnick got to his feet, put down his pencil and notepad, and ghosted to the door. Opening it, he found – Evans.

"Evans!" he whispered joyfully. There was a bruise on her cheek and a bandage on her arm, but she smiled back at him, shadows pooling in her dimples.

"How are you, Finnick?" she whispered.

Finnick smiled. "Fine. More than fine."

"You've got your Annie back, then?" There was undisguised warmth in Evan's voice.

Finnick nodded, automatically glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was still asleep.

"No more nightmares, then?"

Finnick shrugged. "I'm not falling apart anymore, at least," he whispered.

Evans's pursed and her eyebrows raised speculatively. "How's your memory?"

"Good," replied Finnick.

"Where are we?"

"District Thirteen."

"Who runs it?"

"That woman. Pres – President Coin."

"Who am I?"

"How the bloody hell should I know?"

Evans stared at him before she realized he was joking and smiled broadly. Finnick grinned as well, dodging her playful slap to the arm. "Still got your rope, Finnick?"

"Yeah." Beetee had brought it up from Special Weaponry the other day. "But I don't need it much anymore."

Evans looked at him, and maybe it was the dim lighting, but he couldn't get a bead on her expression at all. But before he could ask, Annie brushed up to his side, hand slipping into his, eyes large and questioning.

"Sorry, mermaid," said Finnick quietly. "Were we talking too loud?"

Annie shook her head. "I couldn't hear your breathing," she said simply. Her gaze traveled to Evans, half-timid, half-wary.

Finnick wound his fingers through hers. "Annie, this is my nurse, Evans," he said, lowering his head slightly towards Annie. "Evans, this is my Annie."

Evans smiled, holding out her hand. "I am so pleased to finally meet you, Annie," she said softly.

Annie stared at her outstretched hand, hesitating. Then with great deliberateness she held out her free hand and gently touched her fingers to Evans. "Pleased to meet you," she whispered. Then she pulled her hand back and hid her face in Finnick's arm.

Evans' smile was understanding and sympathetic. "Good night, Finnick," she said quietly. Finnick nodded, his eyes meeting hers. "Sleep well, Annie."

Her gaze lingered on the pair of them for a second more, and then she turned and padded silently down the hallway. Finnick pulled back into the room with Annie, shutting the door as quietly as possible.

Annie was still attached to his arm. "Annie, darling, don't you want to go back to sleep?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head. "I'm not tired." She lifted her face, eyes gleaming, lips parted.

"Sweetheart, you need your rest – "

"I don't want to sleep," she repeated, firmly, but her voice shook. "Not if you're going to stay up, too."

Finnick made to sit her down on the bed, but she resisted, and he stared at her, bewildered. "Annie…"

"Finnick, I talked to Dr. Aurelius, and I know you were ill, and I want you to get better, too!" The words came out in a rush and her voice shook with tears.

"Oh, mermaid…" Finnick hugged her, pulling her close against his chest and rubbing her back until she relaxed into him. "All right, I'll go to sleep too."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Annie broke their embrace, pushing him towards the bed that was barely wide enough for two people. Meekly, he got into bed, pulling the sheets over his legs and patting the empty space next to him. With her lips pursed in what Finnick had long labeled as the stubborn-Annie expression, Annie sat next to him, folding her legs.

"You have to lie down to sleep," Finnick pointed out.

"I know." Annie looked at him obstinately. "But I want to see you go to sleep first."

Finnick laid his head on the pillow, eyes closed, and tried to fake the even breathing of deep sleep. Annie's voice sounded above his head, quiet and amused. "Are you asleep yet?"

"Yes."

He heard her quiet giggle – she never laughed at full volume – and then felt the caress of her hair and touch of her skin as she lay down next to him with her head against his shoulder and her hand on his chest. "Are you asleep now?"

Finnick was already beginning to drop off, but he smiled. "Yes."

His eyes were closed, but he knew Annie was smiling too. As she snuggled closer to him, he let sleep envelop him like a warm cloud.

* * *

And so life changed.

Annie was moved out of the hospital and given a compartment adjacent to Finnick's. He would have preferred they share one, but suspected that it had been a fight to let Coin get them neighboring compartments at all. He compromised by moving his bed right next to the dividing wall, and then having Annie move hers to the corresponding position. The walls were too thick to allow them to talk to each other, but at night Finnick slept pressed against the partition, knowing Annie was doing the same. If she had one of her nightmares – or he his – the other could usually hear it and come to offer comfort.

Annie's little sphere began to grow, to include the cafeteria, the soundstage. And from the shelter of Finnick's arm, she began meeting people. Evans, of course. Beetee, whom she seemed to like, and Fulvia, whom she didn't. She was introduced to Plutarch, too. Someone must have given him a brief lesson on dealing with Annie, or else his limited store of natural tact had grown, because he had the sense to introduce himself not as the former Head Gamemaker but as the "Head of Propo." Nonetheless, he wasn't nearly as warm with Annie as he was with Finnick – who was, quite honestly, okay with that.

They met people from District Twelve, too. Finnick never saw Katniss, whom he assumed was preoccupied with Peeta, but they talked briefly with Gale before he left on a mission to District Two. A blonde girl of about ten took the initiative in introducing herself to Annie as "Primrose Everdeen," and her mother as well. There was another blonde, closer to Katniss' age, Delly, who sometimes with Evans kept an eye on Annie when Finnick wasn't around – which was, unfortunately, a good deal of the time.

Because the minute he had been declared mentally stable, the protection of his medical bracelet had been revoked and his schedule had been subject to many changes, the greatest of which was the fact that most of his day was now occupied by military training. Though he grudged the time spent away from Annie, Finnick accepted the new routine without complaint, viewing it as payment for her rescue. And though training was brutal and his officers merciless, it was good to return to strenuous physical activity.

* * *

"Hey, gang," said Gale wearily, setting his dinner tray down on the table next to Finnick.  
"Gale!" Finnick stood and grasped his hand. "Back from Two all right then?"

Nodding, Gale sat down. "Yeah," he said. "I'm worn out more than anything else." The cafeteria was almost empty; at their table it was only the three of them. Gale looked around Finnick to Annie. "Hey, Miss Cresta."

Annie glanced up at Finnick before responding. "Hello," she said shyly, looking more at her fork than at Gale.

Finnick chuckled and wrapped an arm around her. "So did you guys get into that Nub – Net – whatever it is?"

"Nut," said Gale. "Well, we didn't get in, but we flushed out everyone else. Blew up most of their major tunnels, caused a major landslide – "

He broke off at Finnick's warning look. Annie was staring at Gale, wide-eyed. "Were people hurt?" she whispered.

Gale glanced at Finnick, who gave a tiny shake of his head. "No," said Gale robustly. "No, there were only a few handfuls of people inside anyway, and they were so deep inside all the explosions could do was scare them."

"Good," breathed Annie. Then she looked uncertainly at Gale again. "Is Katniss all right?" she asked, glancing at Finnick to make sure she had the name right.

Gale shrugged, looking careworn. "I think so. I hope so. Her spleen's ruptured."

"What?" gasped Finnick, plastic fork clattering to the tray. "_How?_"

"Enemy sniper," said Gale grimly. "Someone shot her from the crowd. Thank God she was wearing that body armor, otherwise she would have been dead, but as it is the bullet just broke a couple of ribs and – "

Finnick tried to cut him off in time, but it was too late. With a little gasp, Annie had covered her ears, cowering as from invisible assailants. Finnick shot an angry grimace at Gale before wrapping his arm protectively around Annie, using his other hand to gently pry her fingers away. "Annie, darling…"

"Oh, crap – Annie, I'm sorry," said Gale, stretching a hand around Finnick towards her. "I didn't mean…"

Finnick kissed the top of her head, her temple. "Come on, Annie," he said softly. "Listen to me, huh? I'm here. You're all right."

Slowly, Annie came back to her surroundings, but she was shaking like an injured rabbit and would not look at Gale. "I think we'd better get back to our compartments," said Finnick, rising and pulling Annie with him.

"Yeah." Gale stood too. He looked again to Annie. "I'm really sorry, I had no idea that – "

"It's okay," said Annie, quietly and emotionlessly. When she looked up, it was at Finnick. "Finnick, can I have a glass of water?"

"Of course," said Finnick immediately. "I'll get it – "

"It's okay, I'll get it myself."

"Want me to go with you?"

"No, I want to try getting it alone…"

Annie walked back towards the long counter at the end of the room. Gale turned to Finnick, apologetic. "Sh-t, man, I'm really sorry…"

"Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? I mean, after everything…"

"We'll be okay," said Finnick, half to himself.

"Really?" Gale shot him an odd glance that was half-relieved, half-envious. "I wish I could say the same about Katniss and me."

Finnick turned to look at him. "Are – are the two of you a couple? I mean, I thought – her and Peeta – "

"Oh yes, the darling baker boy," said Gale bitterly. "You know, if it wasn't for the Hunger Games, I'd have Katniss like that? But you throw two people together in a life-or-death situation, and they're gonna bond."

"Or turn against each other," suggested Finnick mildly. "With this hijacking thing…Katniss might turn to you for comfort."

"The last thing I want to do is comfort Katniss about Peeta," said Gale, even more acerbically, arms folded.

Finnick didn't have a good response to that. He watched Annie over at the other end of the room pause to talk to Valena Everdeen.

Gale glanced at Annie as well before asking Finnick in an undertone, "Look, I was wondering…have you told Annie? About all your 'lovers' in the Capitol."

Finnick stared at him, revolted. "Good God, no! Why on earth would I?"

Gale shrugged. "I don't know – honesty in a relationship, and all that…"

"That's something Annie never needs to know," said Finnick flatly. "It would break her heart. Possibly forever." He looked at Gale sharply. "Why? What dark secrets are you keeping from Katniss?"

Gale eyed him oddly. "None," he said darkly. "Yet."

* * *

Annie looked down at the schedule printed on her arm. "I'm supposed to go to Command at 13:00," she said, confused.

"What?" Finnick, his arm held away from his body to prevent the drying ink from smudging, came to her side. "Let me see."

Sure enough, there it was: _13:00 - Command._ Finnick looked at his own schedule and saw the same order neatly slotted in between _12:00 – Lunch_ and _13:30 – Physical Training_.

"I wonder what it is," said Annie quietly, frowning at the purple marks. Finnick put his arm around her shoulders and gave them a little shake.

"We'll find out when it happens, huh, mermaid? C'mon, let's get breakfast – are you hungry?"

Annie shrugged. "A little," she said, matching his pace as they walked to the elevator. "You?"

"Yeah, but not for porridge or toast or whatever's on the menu today," said Finnick. "I never thought the day would come when I would miss eating _fish_, but now…"

"I know," said Annie. "I miss home so much…do you think they're all right there?"

" 'Course they are," said Finnick. They stopped in front of an elevator and he pressed the button to open the doors. "Four was one of the first districts to be secured. Everything's peaceful at home."

"I miss our houses," said Annie. "They were so pretty when the sunlight hit them…and my ceramics workshop. Finnick, do you think the president would give me some clay?"

Finnick highly doubted it, but he wouldn't say so. "Maybe if you ask her nicely," he said, kissing the top of Annie's head.

"Maybe," said Annie doubtfully. The gray doors slid open and they stepped into the elevator, Finnick pushing the button to take them down to the cafeteria. "But I never get the chance. I never see her."

* * *

As it turned out, Annie had the chance at _13:00 – Command_ after all.

Finnick froze as the doors opened and he saw the woman standing at the head of the table, flanked by her usual contingent of gray-clad aids and security guards with the faces and IQ's of rocks. Plutarch was there, too, seated but looking down at the table.

Annie drew closer to Finnick and he pressed her hand before stepping into the room. "Um…you wanted to see us?" he said, voice slightly higher than usual.

"Yes," said the woman, voice clipped as ever. "Sit down."

Finnick sat at the opposite end of the gleaming gray table, Annie slipping into a chair by his side, her hand still firmly grasped in his. Plutarch shot Finnick an oddly desperate, almost hungry glance, but before Finnick could think on it the woman was speaking.

"I'm sure you two are aware of the fact that the Capitol is standing on shaky foundations right now."

Uh…no, they weren't. Seeing as no one bothered to tell them _anything…_

"Yeah, we knew," said Finnick casually, leaning back in his seat. "What does that have to do with us?"

"Well, now is the ideal time for us to garner the support of the Capitol citizens themselves," continued the woman. "And as the Hunger Games – " Annie let a soft involuntarily cry and Finnick squeezed her hand comfortingly " – and our propos have already shown, the best way to garner attention is through media."

"So…" Finnick was confused. "What do you need? More 'We Remember' propos?" The thought of putting himself through that again made Finnick feel sick with apprehension, but he ignored it.

"No," said the woman, drawing the word out in a way at odds with her normally clipped tones. "Plutarch thought of a much more effective subject."

Automatically, everyone looked to him. Plutarch shifted in his seat, a strange look on his face. He wasn't nervous, but something…else. Something Finnick couldn't figure out.

Eyebrows raised, Plutarch looked down at the papers he was shuffling. "Well," he said at last, "considering…recent events, the mutual consensus was that what was needed was a propo designed to raise everyone's moral. And there are few things happier than a wedding."

A sort of joyful explosion went off inside of Finnick. "You mean – ?" he gasped. Annie's hand tightened painfully around his.

The woman smiled slightly for the first time in Finnick's memory. "Provided you two are willing, of course."

Finnick turned to Annie. He wasn't sure how the fireworks exploding on his inside were being shown on his face, but her eyes were shining like evening stars.

"What do you say, mermaid?" he asked, voice shaking with joy. "Wanna get married?"

Forget eyes – her whole face was glowing. "Only if you do," she whispered, face lit by a brilliant smile.

"Well, I guess that's settled, then," said Finnick, turning back to Plutarch and the woman, grinning so big it hurt his cheeks. "How – how soon?"

Plutarch shrugged, an odd little smile on his face. "Weeks, at the most."

Okay, so he was acting strange. Did Finnick care? Hell no! He was getting married!

"If that's everything, then I need to get going," said the woman briskly. "Good day, Heavensbee, Miss Cresta, Soldier Odair."

She marched out, accompanied by her retinue. Finnick stood with Annie and was about to leave too when Plutarch said, "Finnick, could you stay for a minute?"

Annie took both his hands, pouting. Finnick laughed and kissed her on the lips. "Go on ahead, mermaid," he said. "I'll see you after training."

"All right." Annie rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him, arms winding around his neck. Finnick had nearly forgotten where he was when she pulled away, lightly touched him on the tip of his nose with her finger, and walked out.

Finnick looked after her, slightly mesmerized by the sway of her hips. As Plutarch cleared his throat, Finnick turned around, exuberance bubbling out of him.

"What is it?" he said – happily, because at the moment he couldn't be anything else. "Make it quick, I've got to be at training in ten minutes."

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of that," said Plutarch, walking towards him. "The thing is…"

"Was this your idea?" said Finnick. When Plutarch nodded, he grabbed his hand and shook it. "Hell, man, you have _no_ idea how happy you've made me…"

Plutarch smiled and clasped Finnick's hand in both of his. "I'm glad, then. It's just – and maybe this is a bad time to ask – but could you do me a favor?"

"Sure," said Finnick, too happy to be cautious. "Anything."

Plutarch met his eyes at him, hesitating. Then he lifted one hand to touch Finnick's face.

"Woah!" Finnick shied away, staring at Plutarch, all senses instantly on alert. "What the hell?"

"Please?" asked Plutarch, his eyes pleading the way no grown man's ever should. "I don't ask much – " And he actually reached out and seized Finnick's shoulders, bring his bulk way, _way_ too close to Finnick.

"Get _off_!" Finnick twisted under his hands – Plutarch's moist, red mouth was inches away from his, his breath horribly warm on his face – with a cry, Finnick kneed Plutarch in the gut and broke away from his grasp, bolting for the door.

"Finnick!" Plutarch's voice was wheezy with pain and desperation, but Finnick sprinted down the hall and pummeled the button for the elevator furiously, hardly aware of what he was doing. Every thought, every instinct in his body was stilled except for a powerful impulse to _get the f—k out of there._

"Finnick!" Plutarch called again, pleading, as the elevator doors opened. Finnick threw himself inside and pushed a number at random. As the doors closed and the elevator hummed away, he leaned over and braced his himself with his hands on his knees, heart pounding, breath coming shorter as he absorbed what had just happened.

Every cell in his body was rebelling against what Plutarch had offered. What _was _this, anyway? He'd had to do stuff like that in the Capitol, sure, and hated every f—king minute of it, but that was why he'd come to District Thirteen so he didn't have to put up with that goddamned sh-t…

Wiping his mouth on his hand, Finnick straightened, his breathing and pulse slowly returning to a normal rate. If he was honest with himself…it really wasn't any worse than some of what he'd put up with in the Capi – over there. It was just…well, considering recent events…and _nobody_ would want it sprung on them like that, even if they swung that way and Plutarch wasn't about fifty years older than them…

Finnick shook his arms and head, trying to dispel the unclean feeling. With a shuddering jerk, the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Finnick realized he had sent the elevator to a random residential level that no one he knew lived on.

With a sigh, he pressed the button that would take him to the surface and _13:30 – Physical Training.

* * *

_

It was raining. Again.

Finnick sighed as he stepped onto the muddy track, the light rain already soaking his hair and turning his white wifebeater gray and gray pants charcoal black. The mud oozed around his beat-up sneakers, and he wished for the hundredth time that whoever was rationing clothing in District Thirteen would let him have a new pair.

He set off jogging at an easy pace along the track, the figures of the other men and boys blurred by rain. That "conversation" with Plutarch was still clinging to his thoughts like a dirty skin…Finnick cast his mind about for something else to distract him. Something happy.

Happy.

Holy frick, he was getting married!

A grin spread irresistibly across Finnick's face as he remembered why he and Annie had been called down there in the first place. Married…Jesus, it seemed so unbelievable. That he and Annie would actually belong to each other, and never have to be separated again…

Finnick's feet kept automatically pounding the track as his thoughts took a different turn. Annie…For the first time – or at least, what seemed like the first time in a long while – Finnick let himself think of her not just as someone to kiss gently and hold tenderly, but as _his wife_, the woman who would share his bed because he actually wanted her to, her long, silky hair spread tangled over silken sheets, the scent and warmth of her soft skin filling his sense in a long, smooth curve from shoulder to hip…

"Finnick? _Finnick?_"

"Huh – wha?" Finnick, shaking his head to bring himself back to reality, found that he'd slowed to a walk and that Gale was matching his pace beside him, eyebrows pulled together.

"You all right?" Gale asked. "You look a little out of it."

"Yeah – yeah, I'm fine," said Finnick, clearing his throat.

"Move it, boys!" barked Sergeant Well from under a crude metal shelter, her voice cracking. "More running, less walking and talking!"

Finnick and Gale picked up their pace, feet going _squish-squoosh, squish-sqoosh_ in rhythm. "Hey, I've got good news," said Finnick.

"Yeah?" said Gale. "I could use some."

Despite the rain, and the mud, and his cheap shoes, Finnick was happy. "There's going to be a wedding soon," he said.

Gale's reaction was very odd. He skidded to a halt, staring at Finnick in horror. "Not Katniss and Peeta?" he breathed.

"What?" Finnick stopped too, taken aback. "No! Why would they get married?"

"I don't know, some mad idea of Plutarch's…" Gale's voice trailed off and they started running again. "Jeez, man, you nearly gave me a heart attack…"

"Sorry," said Finnick shortly, annoyed his announcement hadn't gotten the response he was expecting. "Anyway…"

"Anyway, right, a wedding," said Gale. "So who's getting married?"

Finnick stared at him in disbelief. Gale met his gaze blankly for a second before comprehension dawned on his face. "You and Annie? That's great! Congratulations, Finnick!"

"Thanks," said Finnick, grinning again. "I still can't believe it."

"I bet," said Gale. They rounded the curve of the track and began squelching down the stretch again, wet hair plastered to their heads. "But…whose idea was it?"

Finnick frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

"Who started it? Did you propose to Annie, or was this something Plutarch came up with?"

"Yeah, it was Plutarch's idea," said Finnick, ignoring the squirm of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the man. "Does it matter?"

Gale shrugged. "Not especially," he said. "But if the choice were left up to you…"

Finnick's even strides pounded into the mud, his breath flowing steadily in and out of his lungs as he considered. "I would have waited until the war was over," he said slowly. "Waited until everything was settled down. I would want it to be as happy as possible…"

"But wouldn't it make more sense to get married at the first chance you got?" persisted Gale. "Make sure of her?"

"I'm as sure of Annie as I've ever been of anything," said Finnick. He looked at Gale, who was staring ahead with a frown on his face. "Maybe it's hard for you to understand that, being in love with Katniss."

"Damn straight," muttered Gale. "God, it's like playing with fire…you think you've got her, and then all that happens is you get burned…"

Finnick tried to keep his expression from looking too sympathetic, in case it wounded Gale's pried. "How old are you?" he asked.

Gale glanced at him. "Nineteen."

"Really?" Finnick looked at the black-haired young man in surprise. "I thought you were at least my age."

Gale snorted. "And I could have sworn you were mine." He looked at Finnick wryly. "Guess suffering doesn't always bring maturity, huh?"

"Thank God it doesn't," said Finnick. "If it did, I'd have white hair and walk with a cane."

They passed the metal lean-to that Sergeant Well was standing under. "Let's get going, gentleman!" she snapped. "Unless you feel like cleaning the showers afterwards!"

Grumbling, Finnick and Gale sped up slightly. Gale muttered something under his breath about what else Sergeant Well could clean, and Finnick sniggered.

"What's up?" Rhodey, a fourteen-year-old kid from District Twelve, jogged up beside them, apparently looking to pick up tips on obscenity.

"Nothing, Virgin Ears," taunted Gale. "Go back to the nursery, why don't you?"

"Aw, come on!" When the only thing his protesting achieved was Finnick trying to trip him, he flipped them off and ran down the track.

Finnick shook his head, grinning. "Ah, the young and innocent," he said, stretching his sarcasm muscles. "Remember being like that?"

Gale laughed shortly. "The day Rory starts acting like that I'll beat the tar out of him."

"Rory?"

"My little brother."

Wouldja look at that? Gale had a family. "Is he here in Thirteen?"

"Yeah," said Gale, breath shortening as they continued their second lap. "Him, my mom, my brother Vick, sister Posy – "

"Where's your father?" asked Finnick.

"Dead."

"Oh. Sorry."

"You don't have to be. It happened a long, long time ago." Gale glanced at Finnick. "You have family?"

Finnick let out a long breath, calves burning as he continued to jog through the mud. "Not anymore."

"I'm sorry," said Gale. "Was it recently, or…"

"My father, yes," said Finnick, chest tight. "My mother…that was a while ago. I was four."

Gale sucked in a breath sympathetically. "How did it happen?"

"Accident on a trawler," said Finnick. "It was a storm, she got knocked on the head with a spar and fell in the ocean, and they couldn't get her out in time…"

"That's awful," breathed Gale. "Jesus, that stinks…"

"The worst part was Riley's reaction when they broke the news," said Finnick grimly.

"Yeah…my father died in a mining explosion," said Gale. "Worst f—king day of my life – "

"Pick up the pace!" yelled Sergeant Well. "Or do I have to run behind you with a bullwhip?"

* * *

"Finnick?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry, mermaid." _18:00 – Reflection,_ and he was sitting in Annie's room, yawning his fool head off. "Sorry, I'm just so tired…"

"You don't get enough sleep," said Annie, sitting on his lap and brushing his newly-trimmed hair out of his eyes. "Are you still having nightmares?"

Finnick shook his head. "Not many," he said. Looking in her eyes, he brushed the soft skin of her cheek with his hand. "Are you?"

Annie shrugged. "Less each night," she said, pulling herself close to him. Picking up one of his hands, she wound her own hand through it, looking down at their intertwined fingers. "Finnick…I wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah?" Finnick looked at her curiously – she was blushing carnation pink. "What is it?"

"Well, we're getting married…" she said shyly, still not meeting his eyes. "And I was wondering…if…well…if the wedding night would be…you know…a real…wedding night." She flushed a deeper shade of rose.

"Ohh." Finnick, trying not to laugh so as not to hurt her feelings, ran his hand up and down her waist. "So that's what you're getting at?"

"Yes," said Annie, hiding her face in his chest.

Smiling, Finnick tilted his head in an effort to see meet her eyes. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes," she whispered again, glowing scarlet.

Finnick tucked his arm around her shoulders, a happy little shiver in his stomach. "Well, then, there you go," he said. "A real wedding night it is."


	11. Dulcitas Osculorum Tua

_Happy Valentine's Day.

* * *

_

Real butterflies had nothing on the ones in Finnick's stomach.

He sat on the stool in Fulvia's little makeup studio, hot and half-blinded under the brilliant lights she had trained on him. The collar of his white dress shirt seemed uncomfortably tight, the dark green silk tie choking…surreptitiously, he tried to run a finger between his collar and his neck –

"Stop fidgeting." Fulvia slapped his hand. "I didn't spend hours making you perfect, just to have you mess up my work because you couldn't sit still for five minutes."

Finnick knotted his fingers together and pressed them between his knees. Fulvia had a long tube in her hand and was shaking out clear gel into her plump palm.

"Hold still," she ordered, rubbing her hands together. Finnick obediently sat ramrod-straight as she ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it back, its color in the mirror opposite him deepening from golden-brown to dark bronze. God, when was the last time he had slicked his hair back? It must have been Connor's wedding…four, five years ago. It seemed like a lifetime away, now.

"Here." Fulvia held out the tailored vest of pearl-gray silk and Finnick put it on. He noticed his fingers were shaking slightly as he did up the buttons. The suit had once been Peeta's, he knew, and how Fulvia and her people had managed to alter it from stocky Peeta's size to fitting long, lanky himself was a miracle to him – especially with Thirteen's tight supplies.

Fulvia bustled about him, straightening his collar, adding final dabs of concealer on the circles under his eyes that refused to go away. At last she stepped back, lips pursed fussily.

"Am I presentable, at least?" said Finnick, with an attempt at humor.

"Barely," was Fulvia's tart reply. "If it were just for Thirteen, who would care, but all of Panem is seeing this…"

Finnick preferred to forget that the happiest day of his life was going to be broadcast to an entire country. Oh well. At least the most intimate part of today was going to be safely off-camera.

"I don't know what it is," said Fulvia, "but you just need _something…_" Her manicured hand darted out and selected a stick of dark green eyeliner.

"Aw, no, Fulvia!" protested Finnick, leaning away as she tried to apply it at the base of his lashes.

"For Panem's sake, _will_ you hold still?" she snapped. Grousing in irritation, she touched up the outside corners of his eyes with the eyeliner. "You'd think I was torturing you."

"This looks plenty like a torture chamber to me," muttered Finnick, _sotto voce_, eyeing the many lamps and various instruments of alteration and beautification.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Fulvia shot him a baleful look as she stepped back, smoothing down the last few strands of hair that had escaped the gel. "There," she said, but even then she wasn't done, because she licked her finger and tried to sleek Finnick's eyebrows.

He put up a token resistance, but Fulvia, at this point inured to his squirming, ignored him. Abruptly she left, rummaging among the boxes behind him. Finnick sat, sweating slightly under the bright lights, his hands twisted together, a nervous lump in his stomach and another in his throat. He started to drum his heels on the metal legs of the stool until he remembered that would scuff the shiny black patent leather.

"Here we go." Fulvia returned to pin a boutonniere on his vest. Finnick squinted down at it – a half-opened white rose, with a couple sprays of lacy green leaves and a smaller white blossom he couldn't identify.

"Flowers!" he said in surprise.

"Yes, they were flown in especially from Six," said Fulvia. "You have _no_ idea how much trouble Plutarch had convincing President Coin to allow that…"

Plutarch. Finnick let out a sharp breath and tried to distract himself. It wasn't hard. Because out that door, down a hallway, and in the newly-repaired Collective was his Annie, his mermaid, who was about to become his wife…

Fulvia stepped back for the last time, hands on her hips. "Stand up," she ordered.

Finnick obeyed, turning in a slow circle with his arms outstretched for her benefit. At last, Fulvia sighed.

"I guess that's it," she said, sounding a little forlorn for the first time. Suddenly her lips trembled and she whipped out a handkerchief, dabbing her eyes.

Finnick reached one hand towards her, concerned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, managing a smile. "It's just…you so deserve to be happy, Finnick…"

"Thank you," said Finnick quietly. "Truly."

Fulvia nodded, blotting her eyes again. Then she took a deep breath and switched back to her usual cheery demeanor. "Well, are you ready?"

Finnick nodded mutely. The butterflies in his stomach were mutating into jackrabbits.

"Then let's go."

Finnick followed Fulvia and found himself counting steps as he did so. Ten steps closer, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

They paused in front of the double doors that opened into the Collective. They were shut, but Finnick could hear the excited babble of voices behind them. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking.

Gale walked up, wearing the dark gray formal military uniform, his hair slick like Finnick's. "All right?" he said, clapping Finnick on the shoulder. Fulvia involuntarily squealed as the rough gesture crumpled the fine white fabric of Finnick's shirt.

"Sorry," Gale stage-whispered. He winked at Finnick, who half-smiled and smoothed out the creases.

"Just go in," said Fulvia. "Just like in rehearsal."

"Right," said Finnick under his breath. Beyond those doors wasn't just another room, it was a whole new life…a whole new Finnick… He glanced at Gale, who nodded slightly, a small smile curving his lips. Fulvia patted him on the back. Finnick took another deep breath and nodded to her. Touching her earpiece, she said, "He's ready."

The double doors opened from within. Finnick stepped over their threshold, seeing the crowd of people draw back to form an aisle. Orange and yellow boughs culled from the trees on the surface festooned the plain gray walls. At the far end of the room, the podium had been removed so there was simply a raised platform under the curving spray of amber-colored foliage.

"Smile. You're on TV," whispered Fulvia. And despite his nervousness, Finnick found it easy to grin, to walk up the aisle naturally with Gale flanking him. It helped that he could see familiar faces. Evans. Haymitch. Katniss.

At last he reached the low dais. Dalton, the expatriate from District Ten, stood there, plastic folder in his hands. Off to one side was grouped a children's choir, the younger kids fidgeting worse than Finnick ever had. A dark-haired man sat next to them, fiddle and bow poised in his hands, ready to play. He met Finnick's eye briefly, and Finnick caught a gleam of gray eyes from under fierce eyebrows.

The fiddler, alerted by some unseen cue, raised his instrument to his chin. He nodded to the middle-aged woman conducting the children and together they struck up a tune, courtly but not formal. The fiddler was good; the children, untrained at best.

But Finnick didn't care – because the two aides in formal dress were about to open the doors again. Behind them was Annie – Annie, escorted by Beetee (who was, for tonight, making the extra effort to walk for Finnick and Annie) – Annie, his own –

The doors opened and his heart stopped.

He'd always thought it was a figure of speech to take someone's breath away, but now he saw that Annie had quite literally stolen his breath. Not just that – all air, all color in the room seemed to instantly flow to her as she paced slowly up towards him.

Shimmering silk the color of rain-wet pines encased her body, hugging tight to her curves until it reached her knees. Then it flared out into a ruffled train of layer upon layer of dark green gauze that foamed around her feet like waves on the shore. A corsage to match his boutonniere was tied to her wrist in lieu of a bouquet. Her bare shoulders were creamy white, smooth and gleaming slightly like the simple necklace of pearls she wore around her slender neck. Her hair, fine and shining as chocolate silk, was piled up onto her head into a disarray so glorious he could have wept. Pinned into the soft strands was a large magnolia, the ivory petals almost glowing against her brown hair and the glossy, dark green leaves. Her lips were coated in shimmering gloss the same pink as the inside of a conch shell; there was a light dusting of rose-colored powder across her cheeks and her eyes, large, limpid, and the color of tidepools in the sun, were fringed by feathery lashes the dark brown of coffee beans.

At first, Annie's eyes were downcast, shy at the multitude of unfamiliar people all staring at her. Then, after the first few steps, as she grew more sure of herself, she looked up to where Finnick stood breathless, met his eyes, and smiled.

Finnick's heart soared. He could only stare at her, so full of love and joy and pride he thought he might just about burst, as she walked serenely up to him and took his hands. And maybe it was just him, but Finnick was sure she was radiating a soft golden glow independent of the chill lights of District Thirteen.

Beetee sank gratefully into the provided chair as Dalton stepped forward, folder open in his hands. He took a moment to stare impressively over Finnick and Annie's heads at the gathered crowd before he began in sententious tones, "Marriage. Marriage is what brings us here together, today."

And thank God for whatever miracle _had_ brought them together…Finnick had eyes for no one but Annie, never as acutely conscious as he was now of how lucky he was to have her by his side, whole and radiantly beautiful…

"Marriage, that blessed arrangement, that dream within a dream…"

Could Finnick really be sure he wasn't dreaming? He reassured himself by drinking in every detail of Annie's presence, every fine escaped strand of hair, every last little crease in the white skin of her hands, knowing he could never have imagined that much perfect imperfection on his own…

"We witness today the marriage of Finnick Riley Odair and Annemarie Cresta, two people who henceforth will be one…"

Annie's hand squeezed Finnick's and she met his gaze happily. She was practically trembling with joy, and Finnick felt his face yield to a warm smile that seemed to come from the depths of his heart.

"If any man or woman objects to the joining of these two, let them now speak, or forever hold their peace…"

Finnick knew one heart-choking moment as Dalton paused. But no one raised their voice, and the former Justice rolled on, his magisterial tones unimpeded on the words of the District Four wedding ceremony.

"When the dolphin takes a mate, it is for life. If one partner is seized by the shark, or killed by the long bite of the eel, then the other one sickens and dies as well. So it must be with you. Your fates are now woven together; your lives, intertwined."

A net, woven of strands of long, sweet-smelling grass, was draped over them. As the feather-lightness of it settled around them, it cast a crisscrossing pattern of shadows over Finnick and Annie.

"Finnick Riley Odair," said Dalton. "Do you take Annemarie Cresta as your lawful wedded wife, in sickness and in health, through storm and sunshine, to love, comfort, and provide for, as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," said Finnick, voice strong.

"Annemarie Cresta. Do you take Finnick Riley Odair as your lawful wedded husband, in sickness and in health, through storm and sunshine, to love, cherish, and honor, as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," whispered Annie. Her great eyes met Finnick's, and he trembled at the depth of emotion in them.

Dalton nodded approvingly. "Finnick Riley Odair, what have you to say to your future wife?"

"Annemarie." Finnick let Annie's full name roll off his tongue like notes from a song, every bit as precious as she was. "Annemarie, I love you. You are my reason for existence. I would walk on coals for you, travel the entire world for a single hair from your head, a single kiss from your lips. You have no idea how much – " His voice shook and he stopped, tears in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "You have no idea how much you mean to me."

He could hear several women in the audience sobbing quietly. Dalton glanced at them before saying, "Annemarie Cresta, what have you to say to your future husband?"

Annie's hands tightened on Finnick's and she drew closer to him, taking in a deep, shaky breath.

"Finnick," she breathed. "I don't know what I've done to deserve you, when I was nothing but an empty, discarded shell, but you picked me, and – Oh, Finnick, thank God you're here!"

Disregarding wedding protocol, she flung her arms around Finnick, burying her face in his chest. Finnick held her tightly, touching his face to her hair, smelling the light fragrance of roses.

After a couple moments, Finnick gently pushed Annie from him, keeping his hands on her arms so she knew it wasn't a rejection. "Don't cry," he said, for her ears alone. "You'll smudge your makeup."

Annie smiled through her tears, raised a hand to her eyes to dash the moisture from them, but Finnick captured her hand and kissed her fingers reverently.

"Ahaggm." Dalton cleared his throat, unsure how to return to the scripted ceremony. Smiling, Finnick took Annie's hands again and looked to him.

"Go ahead," he said. Dalton nodded, scanned the page in front of him, and continued where he had left off.

"Finnick Odair, are you satisfied with what your partner has said?"

"I am."

"Annemarie Cresta, are you satisfied with what your partner has said?"

"I am."

"Do you each take the other to be your partner, loving what you know of each other, and trusting what you do not yet know?"

"Yes," said Finnick and Annie, in unison.

"Do you eagerly anticipate the chance to grow together, getting to know the man and woman you will each become, and falling in love a little more each day?"

"Yes."

"Do you promise to love and cherish each other, through whatever life may bring you?"

"Yes."

Dalton nodded again, looking pleased. Whoever had draped the net around Finnick and Annie now removed it. A young boy and a young girl, dressed in white, walked up to the dais, each bearing a bowl of clear water.

Smiling, Annie dipped her fingers into the bowl the girl carried and touched her wet fingers to Finnick's lips. He tasted the salt in the water, felt her mothwing-light touch. Wetting his own fingers, he brushed the salt water across Annie's lips, smiling a little because his fingers came away brushed with pink from her lip gloss…As they had been performing the traditional gesture, Dalton had been reading a blessing...

"Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other. Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. Now there will be no loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other. Now you are two persons, but there is only one life before you. May beauty surround you both in the journey ahead and through all the years, and may happiness be your companion and your days together be good and long upon the earth."

The children's choir had lifted their voices, too, in the District Four wedding hymn that Finnick seemed to have heard so many times without ever appreciating its true meaning…Even now, he did not hear the words so much as he absorbed the meaning, forgetting the specifics of language in the deeper realization of what it truly meant to be married to the woman he loved.

The last treble note died down, accompanied by the hovering wail of the violin strings. Dalton paused, once more surveying the assembly majestically, and asked, "Are all here satisfied?"

"Yes!" chorused the crowd.

"Then by the authority vested in me," said Dalton, "I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

Finnick cradled Annie's face in his hand. With her heels on, her mouth was almost at the same level as his, so all he had to do was lean forward and press his lips to hers. At the moment they tasted like salt water and lip gloss, but it didn't matter to him. All he was conscious of was a deep joy that ran from the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his well-greased head…

The audience was cheering and Finnick turned to face them, tucking Annie against his side, his ineffable happiness expressing itself in one great big golden grin.

Aides were passing through the crowd, handing out glasses of a sparkling amber liquid. Finnick wondered what Plutarch had done to persuade the woman to allow alcohol until he and Annie were given their own glasses and he realized it wasn't champagne, it was apple cider.

Evans stepped forward, her eyes sparkling as she reached the platform. "A toast to the newlyweds," she said, her own glass held high. "May thy life be long and happy, thy cares and sorrows few; and the many friends around thee, prove faithful, fond and true. May your voyage through life be as happy and as free as the dancing waves on the deep blue sea."

The words of the traditional wedding blessing, accompanied by the innate melody in her District Four lilt, seemed to cast an aura of solemnity on everyone. In silence, all raised their glasses to their lips and drank. Then Annie giggled as the bubbles from the cider went up her nose, and the spell was broken.

The fiddler struck up a rousing tune and those guests from District Twelve whooped, clearing a space on the floor for dancing. A tall, bony woman with a deeply lined face and stringy gray hair seized a laughing Gale's hand and began dancing with him, other guests quickly joining in.

Finnick and Annie were among the crowd, and person after person was coming up to them, offering congratulations. Annie clung tight to Finnick's side, and even though he was impossibly happy, he felt a little buffeted by all the strange faces, strange handshakes…for one dizzying moment, he experienced that old illusion of his where everyone was whispering about him behind their hands –

A firm hand at his elbow steadied him. Finnick, turning, saw Gale, his hair a little disheveled, his collar open. Annie smiled at him. "Hello, Gale."

Gale tipped her a salute. "Hello," he said, smiling back. "Only it's not Miss Cresta anymore, is it?" When she blushed, he chuckled and shook Finnick's hand. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," said Finnick, his words heartfelt. Gale nodded, meeting his eyes.

"I wish happiness for both of you," he said quietly. "Truly. I can't think of anyone who deserves it more."

"Thank you, Gale," said Annie. Her eyes were shining softly. "That means a lot."

Gale dipped his head. Then he glanced over his shoulder, eyes sparking in a mischievous grin. "Hey, I think you two are needed."

"What? Why?" said Finnick, panicking slightly.

Gale grinned at them. "To dance, of course." He laughed at Finnick and Annie's blank looks. "What, did you think you could get out of it that easily?"

Soon (Finnick couldn't quite comprehend how) he and Annie were standing in the middle of the great circle of nearly all the guests, who were dancing with their hands joined. The fiddler had changed the tune; it was slower now, fluid – a waltz.

Finnick grinned at Annie, placing one hand on her waist, raising her other one up. "Shall we dance, mermaid?" he asked.

Annie smiled at him, eyes sparkling. And they danced.

They were hampered a little by the train on Annie's dress, but even so it was easy to melt into the music like ice cream, for Finnick to feel nothing but the silken touch of Annie's skin, to see nothing but her own sweet face. They moved in their own graceful circle inside the larger one of the other guests…

And then there was more dancing, faster paced, that they joined in with (Annie removing her high-heeled shoes first), and a fantastic wedding cake iced with waves and dolphins and sea anemones, and when no one could dance anymore chairs were brought in and they all sat gratefully, listening to the fiddler scrape out a hauntingly melodic tune on his violin. Finnick held Annie's hand as they sat next to each other; she rested her head on his shoulder and he kissed her hair.

After the fiddler was done, the woman walked to the front. Finnick automatically tensed, and Annie, sensing the subtle difference in his bearing, straightened with her eyebrows drawn together. But the woman only had a few words to say.

"Congratulations on your marriage," she said, silver hair gleaming. "May it be long and happy."

Then, with a nod to the couple, she stepped down and was soon out of the room. Her place was taken by Beetee, who walked up to the dais but sat down to make his speech.

"Well, here we all are," he said. "And though I'm better with wires than words – " he paused for the little ripple of humor that ran through the room " – I guess I'm the one making the speech tonight." He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts.

"I'm sure all of you realize that tonight is an evening of great significance," he said, light flashing on his thick glasses. "Not just for the bride and groom, but for the entire country. Here we have two young people whom it seemed the fates were conspiring against. It seemed at every step in their relationship, the Capitol was there, thwarting their desires, denying them their right to pursue happiness." Annie hid her face in Finnick's shoulder, and he squeezed her hand comfortingly. "Though often separated, and forced to endure more than any human being should, neither one faltered. Both Finnick and Annie stayed true to each other, despite all that was happening to them. In a world that grew increasingly more uncertain, the one stable thing they had was their love for each other. And now, at last, they have been rewarded with the happiness they so richly deserve."

There were tears in Finnick's eyes as he wrapped his arm around Annie, kissing her on the temple. He loved her so much, he thought he might die from it…

"This wedding is more than just the happy union of two young people. It is our way of saying to the Capitol, to those who continually try to oppress us under their iron fists, that they cannot, _can not_ deprive us of our happiness. Because no matter what they do, we will always find the way to thwart their own twisted ambitions."

Beetee waited for the applause for his speech to die down before continuing. "And now, as it is 23:00, I am informed by President Coin that we all must return to our own compartments." There was a disappointed moan from the guests.

"I know, I know," said Beetee, with a good-humored smile. "But that's how it has to be." With a little effort, he stood up. "To Finnick and Annie Odair!"

Everyone else rose, echoing his cheer. Grinning, Finnick took Annie's arm and they walked out together, the guests filing out behind them. The usually quiet halls of District Thirteen were filled now with laughter and cheers as people hailed each other, congratulated Finnick and Annie, perhaps discovered new friendships and romances of their own…

At last, Finnick and Annie reached the silence and seclusion of an elevator. As it quietly whirred up to the level of their new compartment, Annie leaned against Finnick and sighed happily. Finnick smiled affectionately down at her. "Did you have a good time?" he asked.

"Yes," she sighed, beaming up at him. Finnick chuckled and put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. Annie put her arms around his waist, snuggling contentedly into his side.

With only the hint of a jolt, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Finnick walked out with Annie, down the long gray corridor, searching for the number that marked their new compartment. 3010…3012…3014 –

Finnick stopped in surprise as the door slid open. Annie laughed quietly at the look on his face. "Surprise," she said. "Do you like it?"

The drab gray walls had been swathed with loops and loops of some gauzy golden material that warmed the fluorescent light and turned the room into their own little haven. Finnick stared at it in disbelief. "Annie…how did you…"

She giggled again. "Plutarch had it smuggled in," she said. "He was going to use it for the wedding ceremony, but I convinced him to let me have instead." She looked up at Finnick. "Aren't you glad?"

Finnick laughed, encircling her in his arms as the door slid behind them, enclosing them in their own golden cloud. "Yes, I am," he said. "Very." And he bent his head to kiss her, holding her against him, one hand at the small of her back and the other securely knotted in her hair –

Annie winced and pulled away as Finnick's injudicious touch tugged on the pins in her hair. "Sorry," said Finnick instantly, disentangling the offending fingers. "You all right?"

Nodding, Annie slipped out of his grasp. "I'll just be a minute," she said, walking into the adjoining bathroom. Then – tantalizingly – she shut the door behind her.

Finnick stared at the closed door, pulse suddenly pounding. Sitting down on the bed, he untied and removed his shoes, lining them up neatly. The door still remained closed. He began to unbutton his vest.

From behind the bathroom door came the sound of running water. Finnick paused, listening. "Mermaid, are you all right?" he called.

"I'm fine," was her bright reply. Finnick finished with the buttons and shrugged off the vest. His fingers had trouble with the knot of his tie and he accidentally half-strangled himself before he could get it undone –

The bathroom door opened and the soft silk slid through Finnick's fingers to the floor. Annie stood there, still in her dark green gown, but she had taken the flower out of her hair and it tumbled loosely about her almost to her waist, framing her face – which she had washed free of makeup – in silky waves of dark brown. Finnick didn't think he'd ever seen anything as beautiful.

"Finnick, could you get my necklace?" asked Annie, walking to him and turning around. He complied, reaching up to gently pull her hair out of the way, fingers lingering on her skin.

The tiny gold clasp on the pearl necklace seemed too small for his fingers, and he had to stand up to undo it. Letting the necklace fall into a little coil onto the nearby dresser, he kissed the back of Annie's neck.

She drew in a breath, shoulders rising a little. Finnick brought his hands to her arms, running his fingers down until he reached her slim wrists. His face pressed to her sweet-smelling hair, he crossed Annie's wrists in front of her and pulled her back against his body.

"If I go too fast," murmured Finnick in her ear, "if you ever feel uncomfortable…you must let me know."

Annie nodded, but her hands curled around Finnick's, fingers intertwining with his. All she had to do was turn her head and her perfect, rose-petal lips were right there…

Finnick kissed her soundly, feeling her return his kiss with a strength that surprised him. His lips parted, opening hers with them, and Annie twisted in his arms to face him fully, pulling herself as close to Finnick as possible. And it was with surprised gratification that Finnick realized Annie had been awaiting this moment perhaps as eagerly as he had –

Twined together, they half-turned, and then Annie fell backwards onto the bed, taking Finnick with her. Holding his weight carefully above her, he kissed her lips, her jaw, her throat. Annie arched slightly under him, and he could feel her hands running down his chest, undoing the buttons on his shirt…

The fine white fabric fell in a little crumpled heap on the floor. Annie's searching hands yanked the undershirt off over Finnick's head, and he responded, gasping a little, the hot blood pulsing in his veins and making his hands tremble as they traced the contours of Annie's face. He rolled over onto his back, pulling Annie with him so she lay half-curled on his chest. Her hands on his face, she bent her head to kiss him, hair falling like dark curtains around him. Finnick's hand moved to her back, and the zipper of her dress slid easily under his fingers…

And then there was nothing but the wealth of sensation, almost too much for Finnick all at once – the rush of heat, the silky smoothness of her hair, her touch, bare skin against skin, and the bit of his mind that wasn't taken up with the immediate physical experience was conscious of a deep lyric strain, a song that was felt, rather than heard, running through him and resonating in the deepest core of his body.


	12. Prelude to Destruction II

Tired, sweaty, and muddy, the soldiers in Group A13 trooped into the cement-gray briefing room. Finnick groaned and slumped into the nearest plastic chair. "God, I can't feel my feet."

"Call yourself lucky," grumbled Gale, stepping over Finnick's feet to fall into the chair next to him. "Hey, Rhodey, didja miss the schoolbus?"

Rhodey tripped over Gale's outstretched leg, caught himself, and cursed. "Hey, watch your mouth," Finnick called after the scrappy redhead. "Or do you want us to get Grandma to wash it out for you?"

Rhodey's retort was lost in the noise of people finding their seats and Sergeant Well's yell of "Sit down and shut up, everyone!" Eventually, the noise died down.

"Right." Sergeant Well glared at them, a short, dumpy woman with cropped gray hair. "A new executive order was issued just this morning. In four weeks, two full divisions will be deployed to attack the Capitol."

There was a stunned silence. Finnick and Gale shot each other apprehensive glances as Sergeant Well continued talking. "We are joining with Groups A14 and 15 to form the 5th Company. Accelerated training begins tomorrow. You'll get more details later. You are dismissed!"

Finnick and Gale stood with everyone else, prepared to leave and discuss this newest order immediately, but Sergeant Well called, "Hawthorne! Odair! Report up front!"

Gale grimaced and began to work his way through the departing crowd. Finnick followed with a grim look on his face. Whatever this was, it sure as hell wasn't going to be good…

When Finnick reached the front, he was surprised to see Boggs standing next to Sergeant Well. "Sir," he said, nodding.

Boggs returned the gesture. "Soldier Odair," he said evenly. "Soldier Hawthorne." There was a slight awkward pause, and then he continued, "I'm sure you two are in no doubt that you are some of the major players in this game – well, in the public's eye, anyway," he amended, seeing the wry twist of Finnick's mouth. "So it follows that you're not going to be buried in the middle of some division." His blue eyes flicked from Gale to Finnick, gauging their reactions. "You two are being sent to Squad 451. It's a special sharpshooter unit."

Gale's eyebrows twitched up. "Sharpshooter?"

Boggs nodded. "We've got soldiers taking down Peacekeepers and securing the area around the Capitol right now, but getting in is going to be a lot more delicate. We want minimum civilian casualties, which means no air strikes, no mass bombings. I've tapes of both of you in training. You're some of the best shots we've got who are fit to fight."

Finnick didn't miss Gale's convulsive start. "Katniss – " he blurted.

"Katniss is fine," said Boggs. "But I don't think she's attended a single training session since she arrived, and I'm sure you know as well as anyone that when it comes to following orders, she's terrible."

Gale was having a hard time choosing between being offended and relieved. Finnick glanced at him before asking, "Who else is in this…Squad 451?"

"I'm leading," said Boggs. "Soldier Jackson is second-in-command. I'll pick the others during training, see who's up to par."

"Then, are we still doing – "

"Accelerated training? You bet your boots you are," said Sergeant Well. "Your schedules have already been updated. Get some rest tonight, because you two are reporting tomorrow morning at 5:30."

Finnick stifled a groan. Boggs' eyes twinkled understandingly as he said, "Any other questions?"

Gale shook his head. "Right, then," said Boggs, nodding to them. "Sergeant…Soldiers."

Finnick and Gale saluted as he left. "Right, dismissed," said Sergeant Wells.

They turned and walked out of the rudimentary concrete structure, out under an evening sky covered with bruise-colored clouds. Finnick, glancing at Gale, saw he was tense with suppressed excitement.

"This is it," Gale hissed between his teeth as they lowered themselves through the trapdoor, down into the industrial hallway. "This is it! We're going to the Capitol!"

"Yeah." Somehow, Finnick couldn't find the appropriate enthusiasm within him. After all, he had a very good reason for not wanting to leave Thirteen…

"Sh-t." Finnick stopped dead in his tracks. Gale continued for a couple paces before realizing Finnick had halted and turned to look at him.

"Finnick?"

Finnick stared at him, wide-eyed. "What am I going to say to Annie?" he whispered.

Gale opened his mouth to answer but stopped, stuck. "I – " He paused, ran his hands through his hair, and tried again. "Just – " He broke off, shook his head. "I have no idea," he said finally, giving up.

"Sh-t," said Finnick, walking again. "Sh-tsh-tdoublesh-t – "

"Hey, it's not all bad," said Gale. The tense energy was back in his voice. "You realize this means we get a crack at Snow?"

Finnick turned his head to look at him so sharply his neck cracked. "You think?" he asked, voice constricted.

Gale shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Looks like it," he said, voice falsely nonchalant. "Why else would they want the best shots in the army?"

A nervous thrill ran up Finnick's back. "If I get him…" he breathed, feeling an almost visceral pleasure at the thought of Snow lying on his back, dead, with bloody flowers blossoming from the punctured fabric on his chest…

Gale clapped him roughly on the shoulder. "That's the spirit."

* * *

The door to Compartment 3014 slid open and Finnick staggered over the threshold. Annie sprang up from the bed, running to hug him. "Finnick!"

"Hey, mermaid," said Finnick wearily, hugging her back. "How was your day?"

"Good," said Annie. She looked up at him. "How was accelerated training?"

Finnick groaned and pulled away from her to hobble over to the bed and sit on it. Annie pursed her lips, eyebrows pulled up sympathetically. "Aren't you getting used to it?"

Shaking his head, Finnick pulled his combat boots off with a wince. "In a gazillion years, maybe," he said. He rolled his shoulders back and hissed in pain as the movement stretched the aching muscles in his deltoid and trapezius muscles.

"Here." Annie moved to kneel behind him on the bed. "Take your shirt off."

Finnick complied. Annie's hands began to massage his shoulders, kneading the sore muscles. Sighing with relief, Finnick relaxed, feeling the tight knots in his back and shoulders slowly melt away under Annie's hands. "Better?" she asked.

"Yeah, loads better," said Finnick. "Thanks, mermaid."

The brisk movements of her fingers were working magic. Finnick felt tension release not only in his back but in his legs and the pit of his stomach.

"Did you work in the kitchen again today?" asked Finnick.

"Mm-hm," said Annie. "It was good. Finnick, I like it. I might ask to be assigned there."

"That's good," said Finnick, letting out a breath as a particularly painful kink in his shoulder was smoothed out.

There was a light tap at the door and Finnick raised his head. Annie's hands automatically tensed.

"Come in," called Finnick.

The door opened, revealing Evans. Annie gasped and Finnick hastily got to his feet despite sore and tight muscles, because her eyes were red and her face blotchy.

"What's happened?" asked Finnick. "Evans?"

She took a deep breath. "It's horrible," she said, swallowing. "There was a pro-Capitol uprising in District Four, and…they killed all the other victors there. All of them."

Finnick clamped his hands to his mouth to stifle the choked cry that jumped out of him as he fell back to his seat on the bed. Annie's hands found his shoulders again, clutching them painfully. "All?" she whispered.

Evans nodded, a tear trickling down her cheek. "And their families," she whispered.

Finnick thought of Connor, Connor and his wife Dalia, Connor and his two children, the elder of which couldn't have been more than three…

"Oh, no." Finnick, looking up at Annie, saw her eyes were filled with tears. "Not the children, too," she breathed.

Evans took another deep breath, shaking her head. "I know," she said. "It's – it's horrible."

Annie was sobbing quietly. Finnick, his eyes smarting, turned and reached to gently pull her onto his lap. She clung to him, tears trickling hot down his bare chest.

"I'm sorry," whispered Evans. "I…"

She was from District Four, too. Finnick held out his hand and she took it, managing a sad little smile through her tears. He squeezed her fingers, trying to give back some of the comfort he had received from her so many times.

With a shuddering breath and another attempt at a smile, Evans returned the pressure before breaking free. "I have to get back to the hospital," she said.

Finnick nodded, arm tight around Annie. "All right," he whispered, voice catching.

Evans returned his nod, swallowed, glanced to Annie and walked quickly out with her head bowed.

"How can they do that?" whispered Annie into his chest. "How? I don't understand…" Her voice broke and she sobbed again.

Finnick bowed his head to rest his forehead on her shoulder, eyes screwed shut against the burning grief. "I don't know," he managed to say past the hard lump in his throat. "I just don't know."

* * *

Nighttime, but Finnick couldn't sleep.

It was one, maybe two in the morning, and as he lay in bed with Annie curled up in his arms, he couldn't get to sleep, though he was dog-tired from another day of training and he wasn't thinking of really anything at all. He'd started to doze off a dozen times, only to find his body jerking itself awake…

Annie stirred restlessly in her sleep and Finnick lightly stroked her shoulder. God, even after having her back for what was almost two months now, he still wasn't tired of watching her. And he never tired of seeing the gradual changes in her as the days went by – seeing her lose a little more of that shyness, seeing a little more roundness come to her thin cheeks and body.

She moved again, lips forming soundless words. Finnick kissed her forehead, but as he returned his head to the pillow he saw she had awakened, her eyes wide and fixed on his.

"You're awake?" she said, voice muted by slumber. "Finnick…"

He took her hand, kissed her fingers. "I'm fine."

Sighing, Annie settled more comfortably into the sheets, her eyelids lowered. Finnick assumed she was trying to go back to sleep, but after a few moments she said, "What day is it?"

Finnick laughed quietly. "Mermaid, you think I keep track of the date? I don't know…"

There was a minute-long silence. Then Annie drew in a breath and said, in a flat, emotionless voice, "You know, when I was in prison, I never lost track of what day it was. Because that was what kept me going, knowing that if it was August sixteenth for me, it was August sixteenth for you…that we at least had that in common, existing in the same day…"

Finnick lay still for a beat. Then he reached over and pulled Annie close against him, burying his face in her hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know…"

"It's all right," he heard Annie say.

"No, it isn't." Finnick pulled back to look at her, cradling her face in one hand. "Annie, my heart bleeds just _thinking_ about you being there – "

Her fingers brushed hot wetness off his cheek and he sighed, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"

"Not silly," said Annie. Her breath was warm on his skin as she kissed the corner of his mouth. "Just being you."

Finnick opened his eyes, frowning slightly at her. Her expression (as far as he could tell in the dim light) was open, trusting. "What – what do you mean?" he asked quietly.

Annie shrugged. "That's just what you do, isn't it?" she said. "Worry about me?"

"Well, yes, but…" Finnick stared at her, trying to read her mood, and suddenly the question he'd been aching to ask but too scared to say burst out of him. "Annie, please don't take this the wrong way, but I thought that you'd be so much worse – after being in the Capi – over there…"

He was terrified he'd wounded her with that impulsive query, but she laid her head against his chest, hands flat against the skin on his back, expression contemplative.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I'm not sure why that is, but…Finnick, you remember my ceramics? Back in Four?"

Finnick nodded, though he didn't see what that had to do with anything.

"Well, I'd make something, right, out of wet clay? And while it dried, until you fired it, it was brittle, fragile…you had to be so careful, or it might break. And after you fired it, it was still fragile, but not nearly as much…It had gotten harder. Stronger."

"So…" Finnick paused to make sense of her metaphor.

"What I'm saying, Finnick, is that I think I learned how to be stronger," said Annie. "Yes, I still have memories that hurt, new and old, and I'll never feel safe without you, and there will always be things haunting me, but…" She took a deep breath, turning her head to look at him. "But I'm stronger now."

Finnick looked into her eyes, searching. Then he pulled her tightly to his chest, holding her, face pressed against her neck as his heart throbbed with a hundred different emotions he couldn't name.

* * *

"You're joking." Gale looked up from his stew, eyes crinkling with humor. "That didn't happen."

"No, it did, I swear!" Finnick's hands flew out helpfully to illustrate his point to the little group at the table in the cafeteria. "I was walking on the beach, right, and I had this new cap that my dad had bought me. Bright red. I loved that stinking hat, wore it everywhere – to school, to bed – "

"How old were you, Finnick?" interrupted Johanna, smirking.

"I was eight, if you must know," retorted Finnick, affecting an injured voice. "Anyway, I was walking on the beach, when I see there's this giant sea turtle swimming in the ocean. It was _huge_. So I wade in to get a closer look, when – _whoosh!_" Finnick gestured forcefully with his arms, mimicking the wind, making Annie gasp and then giggle. "A gust of wind came along and blew my hat off."

"Couldn't you swim after it?" asked Delly, smiling.

"Well – yeah, I could've," said Finnick. "I did. But that sea turtle got there first."

"Must have been a pretty speedy turtle," quipped Johanna, making Katniss, who was biting bits off a piece of gravy-soaked bread, laugh.

"He was," said Finnick, eyes wide and innocent. "I'm telling you, those things move _fast…_" His voice died away as he realized Delly, Katniss, and Gale were all looking at someone behind him.

Twisting around, Finnick saw Peeta. Annie clutched Finnick's hand, and not just because there was a new person. Peeta had guards. Two of them. And he was handcuffed.

"Peeta!" said Delly, trying to mask her surprise with cheer. "It's so nice to see you out…and about."

He didn't respond, just sort of nodded awkwardly. God, he looked awful. Not physically – it was clear he'd been fed up some since coming to Thirteen, and any bruises or marks of his beatings were gone – but there were bags under his haunted eyes and new lines around his grim mouth.

"What's with the fancy bracelets?" asked Johanna. Annie, sitting next to her, flashed Finnick a worried look. He stroked her hand with his thumb comfortingly.

"I'm not quite trustworthy yet," said Peeta. It could have been a joke, except he was dead serious. "I can't even sit here without your permission."

Finnick had qualms about having someone who required a constant guard and handcuffs anywhere near Annie, but Johanna promptly invited Peeta to sit next to her. As he settled into the chair, trying to keep his tray balanced with his fettered hands, Johanna leaned her elbows on the table and said matter-of-factly, "Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We're very familiar with each other's screams."

That did it. Annie gasped, covered her ears, shoulders hunching. Finnick glared at Johanna before pulling Annie close to him. Was she _trying_ to be that tactless, or did it just come naturally?

"Mermaid?" he said quietly, ignoring whatever Johanna was saying to excuse herself. "Darling, it's all right…" His hand chafed her arm comfortingly, other hand brushing her hair behind her back. His voice was a soothing murmur, barely louder than the sound of cutlery on plastic plates. "C'mon, now, Annie, you're all right…you're fine…nothing's going to hurt you."

Annie's face contorted briefly in a faint whimper, but her hands slid down slightly. Finnick kissed the top of her head, arm pressing her against his side in a safe little circle. "It's all right, sweetheart. I'm here. I'm here."

Her trembling hands slowly fell to her lap. Finnick wrapped them in his own long fingers, his interest in his food gone. No one else seemed to want to talk now – he wouldn't have joined in if they had. He watched Annie, who was sitting still, eyes downcast. At last she looked up with a tiny smile, freed one of her hands, and began to push her stew around in its tray.

"Annie, did you know it was Peeta who decorated your wedding cake?" Delly bravely broke the silence, trying to sound as cheerful as if nothing had happened. "Back home, his family ran the bakery and he did all the icing."

Unaccountably, Finnick disliked the idea that Peeta had been involved in his and Annie's wedding. That had been their one, golden moment. He didn't need Katniss' hijacked sometimes-boyfriend to be tacked onto it.

But Annie was a gentler soul than he, and more forgiving. "Thank you, Peeta," she said, looking around Johanna, who was scraping her spoon around in her tray to get the last drops of gravy. "It was beautiful."

"My pleasure, Annie," said Peeta. Finnick's hackles rose instantly at his tone – soft, gentle, almost caressing. He didn't care if Peeta _did_ feel sorry for Annie – not that he had any damn reason to – he had no right talking to her like that.

Feigning casualness, he rose. "If we're going to fit in that walk, we better go," he said, rising. Annie got up with him, eyes confused as she handed him her tray, but for once he didn't meet her gaze as he laced his fingers through hers. "Good seeing you, Peeta."

"You be nice to her, Finnick." Peeta's tone was flat, almost cold. "Or I might try and take her away from you."

If it weren't for Annie, Finnick would have punched him right then and there. Masking his anger with a light voice, he said, "Oh, Peeta. Don't make me sorry I restarted your heart." He did feel worried about how Katniss would react to this new side of Peeta and glanced at her as he walked off with Annie. She looked slightly stunned.

Annie was silent as they handed their trays back at the counter and left the dining hall. As they stepped out into the hallway, she frowned and drew closer to him, but still didn't speak. Finnick looked down at her, worried. "What's wrong, mermaid?"

"I was going to ask you that," she said, looking up at him with a wrinkle in between her fine thin brows. Amazed, Finnick halted and stared down at her.

"Nothing is wrong," he said. "Honestly."

"Then why are you pretending we're going for a walk?" said Annie.

"Pretending? I'm not pretending…"

"Finnick, no one goes outside except for military training…"

Defeated, Finnick met her eyes, taking both her hands in his. "Doesn't…didn't Peeta's behavior bother you?"

She only looked more puzzled. "No…why should it?"

"Well…just the way he was acting…"

"Finnick, he's not well at all!" Annie's tone was the closest to angry he'd ever heard it. "He's been through worse than either of us, and he doesn't even have anyone to help him! I'm not bothered, I'm sorry for him…and you should be, too!"

Startled by her uncharacteristic vehemence, Finnick pulled back slightly. Annie stared up at him with reproachful eyes for a moment longer. Then her lip trembled and she hugged him, hiding her face in his shirt.

"I'm sorry, Finnick," she said. "I didn't mean to snap it you…"

"No, I deserved it," said Finnick, wrapping his arms around her. "You're right, like you always are – "

"Don't _say_ that!" burst out Annie, looking up. Finnick raised an eyebrow in question and she shrugged apologetically. "It makes us sound like an old married couple."

Grinning, Finnick pulled her closer, hands linked behind her waist. "Well, we are married," he said. She hid her face against his chest again and he tilted his head to the side to see her face. "At least, we were the last time I checked."

"Yes, but we're not old," said Annie, voice muffled.

Finnick laughed, but he couldn't really think of anything to say to that, his immediate thought that they would be lucky to reach old age being not suited for this conversation at all.

* * *

When Finnick walked into Command and saw that the only other person there was Plutarch Heavensbee, he had to resist a very strong impulse to turn on his heel and leave. Instead he went to lean against the back wall, as far away from Plutarch's seat at the head of the table as possible.

"Finnick." Plutarch had approached and stopped a couple of feet away. Finnick studiously looked everywhere except at him.

"Finnick, I know you're angry, and I can understand why." Plutarch's voice was quiet, withdrawn. "I want to apologize for what happened. I…wasn't quite feeling myself that day."

The metal bar running around the edge of the door frame was immensely fascinating.

"So, I…just want to say I'm sorry, and assure you that it will never happen again."

"Yeah," said Finnick shortly, since courtesy seemed to demand he say _something_. Plutarch waited, realized that he was all the response he was going to get, and moved away.

Thankfully, Boggs and Gale walked in at that moment, giving Finnick someone else to talk to. Gale grinned and gestured at Finnick's hair. "So they didn't shear you either?"

"Yep." The soldiers slated for active combat were all being given buzz cuts, but Finnick and Gale had both been spared the razor's edge.

"Well, we need you recognizable for the cameras," said Boggs. He sounded strangely edgy, and Finnick remembered that Katniss was being tested to see if she was fit for combat today.

"Really?" asked Finnick, faking dumb innocence. "I thought it was because they were all scared of what Annie would do once she saw all my hair was gone."

Gale laughed, and Boggs briefly smiled. The door opened again, and the rest of Squad 451 trooped in.

"Hey." Finnick greeted them, with additional handclasps for Mitchell and Homes. They were middle-aged, steady, professional, and Finnick would have respected them even if he hadn't seen Mitchell shoot down a sparrow that was flying overhead during one of their practice sessions.

"Is this everyone?" said Plutarch.

"Yeah," said Boggs. "Wait – Leeg 2, where's your sister?"

Leeg 2 grinned. She had freckles, hazel eyes, and her tan hair was so close-cut she might as well have been bald. "Bathroom," she said.

Leeg 1 entered as the other commanders – though thankfully not the woman – filed in. As Plutarch began talking about the Capitol's defenses, Finnick honestly tried to keep up, but without a visual reference it was hard for him to make sense of what Plutarch was saying. He did gather that the Capitol was protected by a complex defensive system consisting of "pods." Whatever the hell pods were.

The door opened again, and Finnick saw Katniss, standing there with a giddy grin on her face that made her look years younger. She wasn't the only one happy; Boggs' face cracked into a relieved smile and he shook his head. "Let's see it." Katniss held her hand out to him, and Finnick saw it was stamped with a purple _451_. Gale, standing next to him, sucked in a quick breath. "You're with me," said Boggs, and he sounded prouder than a disinterested commander should. "It's a special unit of sharpshooters. Join your squad."

Katniss walked over to them – Finnick could tell she was reining in her own exuberance. As she took her place in between Gale and Leeg 2, she shot an excited glance at Gale. He, on the other hand, looked worried…

A holograph sprang to life in front of Plutarch, shimmering in oddly distorted colors.

"This, for example, is the area surrounding one of the Peacekeepers' barracks," Plutarch was saying. Finnick, grateful for something to visually make sense of, leaned forward unconsciously. "Not unimportant, but not the most crucial of targets, and yet look." He tapped the keyboard, causing various flashing, colored lights to appear in the holo. "Each light is called a pod. It represents a different obstacle, the nature of which could be anything from a bomb to a band of mutts. Make no mistake, whatever it contains is designed to either trap or kill you…"

Katniss was drifting towards the holo. Finnick walked with her, wondering what she saw, until he realized that this wasn't the first time either of them had been in a fight for their lives…

A green light from the holo flashed in Katniss' palm. Finnick stepped up beside her, his own finger reaching towards the red glow that marked an insubstantial doorway. "Ladies and gentlemen…" he said under his breath.

Katniss finished it for him, her own voice loud and defiant. "Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!" And she laughed, but it sounded off. Finnick shot her a worried glance that Gale echoed.

"I don't even know why you bothered to put Finnick and me through training, Plutarch," she said jocularly.

Whatever she was covering, Finnick could only play along… "Yeah, we're already the two best-equipped soldiers you have."

"Do not think that fact escapes me," said Plutarch, waving his hand irritably. Was he annoyed by their joking, or Katniss' reference to the Games? "Now back in line, Soldiers Odair and Everdeen. I have a presentation to finish."

Sure, sure. As Finnick returned to his post against the wall, his mind was far away from Plutarch's presentation. Yes, he'd known he'd be going into combat. He'd known it would be dangerous. Would have been suspicious if it wouldn't have been. But somehow, seeing all those blinking lights, so innocent with their bright colors, had triggered some shift in his thinking…Maybe it was Katniss' injudicious remark, but all he could think of now was the Hu – the Hun – the Games. It was exactly the same, he realized. Get dumped into a fight-or-die situation. See how many people you can take down before you get taken down yourself.

Only this time, they weren't fighting people, it was an arsenal of weapons as unlimited as the imaginations of the people who had designed them…

The meeting over, Finnick left as quickly as possible. It wasn't much of a surprise when he found himself walking with Katniss down the hallway.

"What will I tell Annie?" he muttered. He hadn't even told her he'd be leaving to fight at all…

"Nothing," said Katniss. "That's what my mother and sister will be hearing from me."

"If she sees that holograph – "

"She won't," Katniss cut him off. "It's classified information. It must be." Well, Finnick didn't doubt that. "Anyway, it's not like an actual Games. Any number of people will survive." Her tone was a little too optimistic to be pragmatic. "We're just overreacting because – well, you know why. You still want to go, don't you?"

"Of course. I want to destroy Snow as much as you do." Wanted to see him bleeding, broken, strapped to a table in one of his own torture chambers…

"It won't be like the others," said Katniss. "This time Snow will be a player, too."

Otherwise, Finnick probably wouldn't be going. Before he could respond, Haymitch stepped up to them, looking grim – well, grim_mer_. "Johanna's back in the hospital," he said.

"Is she hurt? What happened?" Finnick was surprised by the concern in Katniss' voice.

"It was while she was on the Block. They try to ferret out a soldier's potential weaknesses. So they flooded the street."

Finnick remembered the Block with seething distaste. Apparently their way of discovering his "potential weaknesses" had been to torment him with the sound of Annie screaming, seeing if he would follow orders or go racing down the street to rescue her. He wondered if they'd gotten the idea from the jabberjays. Either way, he hated it.

"So?" said Katniss, prompting Haymitch.

"That's how they tortured her in the Capitol," he said. "Soaked her and then used electric shocks. In the Block she had some kind of flashback. Panicked, didn't know where she was. She's back under sedation."

Sh-t, that sucked. That really, really sucked. Finnick had had enough of the hospital to last him a lifetime, so he pitied anyone who had to go back there. And flashbacks…well, he'd had enough unpleasant experiences with those, too.

"You two should go see her. You're as close as friends as she's got," said Haymitch. Finnick nodded assent, willing to put aside his dislike of Johanna for once. "I better go tell Plutarch. He won't be happy. He wants as many victors as possible for the cameras to follow in the Capitol. Thinks it makes for better television."

Jeez, everything was turning into a film shoot now.

"Are you and Beetee going?" asked Katniss.

"As many young and attractive victors as possible. So, no. We'll be here." Finnick was definitely not imagining the edge of resentment in Haymitch's voice. It was clear he wanted a shot at Snow's ass as well.

"Well, I'm going to see Johanna," said Finnick. He turned to Katniss. "Coming?"

"I'll come later," she said. "I want to ask Boggs for a favor…"

Finnick shrugged and turned, pacing his way to the hospital. Haymitch matched step with him, hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face.

After a couple of minutes, he spoke. "How are you holding up?"

"Pretty well," said Finnick. They reached the elevator and he punched the button. "Better than before."

Haymitch grunted, staring at the floor. As the elevator announced its descent with a quiet whir, he asked, "So Plutarch showed you guys the Capitol defenses?"

Finnick nodded, wondering how he knew. "Yeah, they're…they're something."

Haymitch looked at him as they stepped into the elevator, mouth set in a straight line. "You saw it, didn't you?"

Sometimes it was easier to play dumb. "Saw what?"

"Saw what Katniss saw. What I saw. What every other victor who sees that is going to see – that the Capitol is a f—king arena all over again."

"Oh. That." Finnick leaned against the elevator wall, hands drumming open-palmed against the metal. "Yeah, I saw that."

"Well?" Haymitch was watching him for his response.

Finnick turned his head to look at the aging victor as the elevator shuddered to a halt. "Well, it's not like it's any different from what we expected."

That answer confused Haymitch. "What?"

Shrugging, Finnick stepped out into the hallway. "It's always been dog-eat-dog," he said, turning to look back at him. "Did you think that would change just because the sides have?"

The elevator doors closed in front of his startled face. Finnick turned round again and walked as casually as he could into the hospital. Just _being _there made his breath come shorter, his hands shake…

"Finnick!" Evans ran up to him, startled. "Are you all right? Has something happened?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he hastened to reassure her. "I just came to see Johanna…"

"Oh, right…" Evans consulted a clipboard on the wall. "She's down that hallway, Ward 27, Room 3…"

"Thanks," said Finnick. As he walked through the sterile white halls, he tried very, very hard not to look at any of the other patients. Thankfully, most of the doors were closed…

As was Johanna's. Finnick tapped lightly on the door, heard a weak groan in response. Suddenly apprehensive, he pushed the door open.

Johanna lay on the hospital bed, pale, sweaty, her eyes wide-open and frightened. Finnick hesitated in the doorway with his hand in his pockets. "Um…hi."

Instead of answering, Johanna swallowed convulsively. Finnick was startled, and more than a little afraid, of how vulnerable she looked. He had no idea how to deal with her like this…

And then he thought of Annie. Of how Johanna really wasn't that different from her, now. Just a young woman, broken by the Capitol's machine.

"How are you?" asked Finnick quietly, drawing up a chair and sitting next to her bed. Johanna watched him distrustfully, as wary of this change in him as he had been of her.

"Spectacular," she rasped. "Why?"

Finnick shrugged. "Haymitch told me what happened on the Block."

The Johanna he'd known would probably have cussed Haymitch out. The one lying on the bed winced, shuddered, and turned away.

Impulsively, Finnick took her hand. Under the sweat, her skin was thin, papery.

"I don't think I need to tell you how tough it is," said Finnick. "But maybe you need to hear someone say that it's possible to live past it. More than possible. Doable. As long as you keep your mind to it."

Johanna looked back at him, frightened, yet wanting to believe. "I thought I was," she said. "But then…" Her voice trailed off hopelessly.

Finnick squeezed her hand comfortingly. "It's not going to be a smooth path," he said. "But believe me, it'll never be as bad as it first was again." Somehow, he found room for a wry grin. "I would know."

"Yeah, I think you would," said Johanna hoarsely. Her eyelids trembled. "Say – say hi to Annie for me, would you?"

Finnick swallowed, unreasonably touched. "I will," he said, releasing her hand and rising. "Get well soon."

"Thanks," whispered Johanna. And whether it was her big eyes, or the loss of her fiery demeanor, or the evident fragility of her frame under the thin bedclothes, but to Finnick she looked more like a lost child than anything else, a lost child he wanted to comfort but didn't know how…

Taking a deep breath, he turned and left the room.

* * *

Finnick squinted through the sighting of his gun, lining the crosshairs up with the chink of flesh-colored fabric visible between the plates that protected shoulder and chest, right under the armpit. He took a breath, squeezed his finger on the trigger –

With a sharp report, the bullet streaked out of the black gun muzzle. Almost instantaneously, red liquid spurted from under the dummy's arm. Finnick rose from his crouch, pleased.

"Good one." Gale clapped him on the shoulder.

"Thanks," said Finnick, pulling off his protective glasses. As he turned from the firing range, he saw someone approaching, someone very out of place on the military training ground.

Plutarch Heavensbee.

"Hey." Finnick hit Gale on the arm. Distracted from his own aiming, Gale turned around with a slight frown. Finnick nodded towards Plutarch. "What's he doing here?"

Gale's frown grew more pronounced. "Special orders, maybe?" His eyes narrowed in a wicked grin. "He doesn't look too happy, though."

It had rained last night. There was a definite scowl on Plutarch's face as he picked his way through the muddy ground.

Boggs stepped up to him, pulling off gloves. "Mr. Heavensbee," he said. "What can I do for you?" His tone was just a shade too ironic to be genuine.

Plutarch gestured to the concrete shelter where Jackson and Katniss were loading their guns. "Let's gather everyone. I have an announcement."

Gale shot Finnick a _What-did-I-tell-you_ look. Finnick grimaced and walked over with him to join the others.

"Squad Four-Five-One, you have been selected for a special mission," said Plutarch. "We have numerous sharpshooters, but rather a dearth of camera crews. Therefore, we've handpicked the eight of you to be what we call our 'Star Squad.' You will be the on-screen faces of the invasion."

Translation: We're going to be filming you pretending to fight, but you won't actually get to do anything.

Have fun.

* * *

"Finnick!" Annie looked up from slicing turnips into chunks in the kitchen, eyes round. "What are you doing here?"

"I have to talk to you," he said quietly.

Annie's eyes widened at his serious tone. "Okay," she said, immediately putting down her knife and drying her hands on a towel. Finnick didn't speak as he took her hand and led her out of the kitchen and into the hallway. It felt too bright, too open. He found a storage closet and walked with her into it, turning the light on as the door shut behind them.

"Finnick, what is it?" Annie faced him, taking his hands. Finnick met her eyes seriously.

"I'm leaving soon," he said.

Annie's face paled down to the lips. "Why?" she whispered.

Finnick took a deep breath. He didn't want to tell Annie this, didn't want to cause her the grief and worry he knew it would, but he owed her his honesty –

"They're sending soldiers out to fight in the Capitol," he said. "I'm going, too."

Annie did not speak. But she stared at him and began to tremble violently…

"Mermaid?" Concerned, Finnick reached for her face.

"No!" The cry burst out of Annie, echoed in the small room. "Oh God, Finnick, no!"

"Darling, I've got to," said Finnick, heart aching, both hands reaching for her now as she backed away. "We've got to bring them down – "

"But why you?" There was real anguish in Annie's words. "Haven't we suffered enough already?"

Finnick's excuse sounded lame even in his own years. "They want heroes, faces the public will recognize…"

"Bullsh-t!" Finnick stared at Annie, shocked by the profanity, and she stared desperately back at him. "Finnick, don't you see, it's the same thing all over again…just more and more killing, it never ends – "

"But it does!" Stepping forward, Finnick seized Annie's arms, bringing her closer to him. "That's why we're fighting, Annie, so that we don't have to live with their injustice anymore…"

Annie stared at him solemnly. "Finnick, do you really think Coin will be any better than Snow?" she whispered.

"She can't be any worse," he countered feebly.

"She's as vindictive, as ruthless, as power-hungry as he is!" burst out Annie. "Oh God, Finnick, why can't you see that?"

"I thought you wanted to be free – "

"I want you to be safe!"

They stared at each other for a long time. Finally Annie broke the silence. "What do _you_ want?"

The truth burst out of Finnick in a low growl. "I want Snow to pay for everything he's done."

Annie looked away. After a minute, she said in an odd voice, "You know, part of me really likes that idea."

"Annie, I have to go," said Finnick. "There's nothing else for me to do. Nowhere to run if I disobey."

"Another example of Coin's justice?"

"Annie – "

She silenced him by putting her fingers on his lips. "Look, I know you have no choice," she said. "I get that. Just…when you go, remember what you're fighting for."

"I will."

Annie nodded, stepped away. "I have to get back to work," she said quietly.

Finnick opened the door for her, turned off the light. As he was walking down the hallway, he heard Annie call his name. "Yes?" he said, turning around immediately.

She was standing a couple of yards away with an odd little smile on her face. "When you leave, can you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Don't die."

* * *

Finnick liked the hospital better after lights-out, with the harsh whites muted by mats of shadow. It was easier for him to slip through unnoticed, to reach the door of Evans' office without anyone knowing.

Evans' eyes widened when she opened the door in answer to Finnick's light tap. "Finnick!" she said in surprise. "Come in. Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine," he said, stepping into the room as she shut the door. "It's just…" Evans turned the lamp on, looked at him with concern.

"We're leaving tomorrow," said Finnick. "Will I be all right during combat?"

"I don't know," said Evans softly. "Are you still having nightmares?"

"Now and then."

"But you don't fall apart."

"No," said Finnick, shuddering slightly at the memory of that awful feeling.

"Your paranoia is gone?"

"Yes."

"And you don't have flashbacks, relapses…"

"No."

"Well, you should be okay," said Evans, but she still looked worried. "I can't know for sure…"

"Yeah," said Finnick. "I'm bringing my rope, just in case."

"Don't use it as a crutch, though."

"I know."

Finnick hesitated and then said, "You know, I suppose this is goodbye."

"Yes, it is." Evans held out her hand and Finnick took it. "Take – take care of yourself." She bit her lip, holding back tears.

"I'll try," said Finnick quietly. "But I can't make any promises."

Evans almost smiled. Finnick pressed her hand tightly. "Thank you," he said. "So much. For everything you did."

"You don't need to thank me," whispered Evans. "Good luck."

Finnick had his hand on the door handle when a thought made him turn back to her. "Evans, what's your first name?"

This time, she managed to smile. "Leah."

"Oh," mumbled Finnick. "I thought it might have been Gaila. You look like a Gaila."

With tears in her eyes, Evans shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said gently.

Finnick shrugged. "It doesn't matter." Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. "Well…bye."

"Goodbye, Finnick," said Evans softly.

He hesitated – saluted – and left the hospital with a tightness in his throat and chest.

* * *

"_It is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable."_ - The Importance of Being Earnest, _Oscar Wilde_

Finnick held Annie, tightly, tightly, crushing his face in her hair, because he knew this might be the last chance he ever got to hold her. Annie's fingers clutched the fabric of his uniform on his back and she let out a gasping breath.

"It'll be okay," murmured Finnick brokenly. "I'll come back…"

"Oh, God!" sobbed Annie.

She raised her tearstained face to his and he kissed her fiercely, passionately, tasting the salt of their mingled tears. And the feelings in his heart choked him as he held her as close to his chest as possible, burying his face in the hollow between neck and shoulder as she hugged him with all the force in her slight body, her heart pounding so hard he could feel it against his. Gasping, Annie took Finnick's face in her hands and kissed him again and again and again, and he kissed her back, not wanting to leave and rip his own heart out…

"Soldier Odair?" Boggs' voice, quiet with restrained sympathy, came from behind Finnick. "We're leaving now."

Swallowing, Finnick looked straight into Annie's eyes, holding her face in one hand. "I will – come – back," he breathed fiercely. "_Never_ doubt that."

"But how can you know for sure?" Annie whispered.

Finnick shook his head. "I can't," he said.

He kissed her again, pressing his lips to hers, trying very hard not to think that this might be the last time he tasted their silky sweetness…with a gasp, he broke away, stumbling slightly, shouldering his gun as he hurried after Gale and Boggs and the others. Just before he reached the door to the hangar, he turned, looked back at Annie. She stood among the other lovers and families of the departing soldiers, slim and straight, arms folded around her, tears running silently down her face. Then someone jostled him as they were going through the door and he lost his balance. When he looked up again, Annie was gone.


	13. The Pit and the Pendulum

Back in District Four, the little kids played a game called "Shark." At least, they had when Finnick had left. He didn't know if they still played games anymore.

To play "Shark," the teacher chose one kid while everyone's eyes were closed. That child was the "shark." Then they all walked around while the "shark" would try and tag people as discreetly as possible. Whoever they tagged "died" and was out. The remaining kids were supposed to try and figure out who the "shark" was. Once they found out, then everyone could scream "SHARK!" and run around laughing their heads off as the "shark" tried to tag as many people as possible.

Finnick felt like he was playing a giant game of "Shark" now. Except this time, if you died, you died for real, and even if he yelled "SHARK!" nothing would change.

You would think Snow would be the "shark." After all, it was his rule they were fighting against, his pods and booby traps that were already beginning to pick soldiers off. He was the Bad Guy, the one public opinion was supposedly turned against. But at least he operated with a pattern. If you looked hard enough, you could see him tagging people.

Coin might be the "shark," too. But she was sneakier about it. Nastier. She did things that made Finnick seriously question whether she was a good replacement for Snow.

Things like letting Peeta join Squad 451 armed, without any guards or manacles, knowing his new goal in life was to kill Katniss.

* * *

8:00 in the rebel camp, outside the Capitol.

With dinner over, the watches set, evening roll called, the soldiers had a few hours to relax before 11:00 and curfew. Some played cards. The more hard-core did sit-ups or cleaned their already spotless weapons. Sometimes a couple managed to evade their squadron leader and slip into the shadows for their own romantic interlude.

But Finnick had the best job of all. He got to be on guard duty and watch Peeta.

Gale, his partner in the watch, was already there when Finnick walked over to the little camp heater that Peeta was crouched next to. It was clear Gale was even less happy with this new task than Finnick was. He was pacing relentlessly with a scowl on his face, close enough to Peeta so that he could still technically be guarding him but far enough away that they couldn't hold a conversation.

Finnick sat down a few feet away from Peeta. His rope – tied around his wrist – chafed his skin and Finnick rubbed it absentmindedly. He wasn't sure how he felt about having his rope with him again. True, he hadn't needed to use it yet. And he supposed it was comforting, knowing it would be there if he did. But it was also disquieting, a nagging little reminder waiting for him to slip up.

Peeta was a black silhouette against the yellow glow of the heater. He sat hunched over, with his face in his hands and his elbows propped on his crossed legs. Finnick folded his own arms on top of his drawn-up knees and let his gaze wander. It felt awkward sitting next to Peeta, and Gale was clearly in no mood for a conversation. Finnick wished one of their squad members would drop by.

A low muttering started up on his left. Finnick turned his head and saw that Peeta was murmuring things to himself. It was almost loud enough for Finnick to make out what he was saying, but not quite, and Finnick found himself automatically trying to pick out phrases, trying to make sense of the constant stream of blurred words…

After about five minutes, he couldn't stand it. "Here," he said brusquely, untying the rope from his wrist and holding it out at arm's length to Peeta. "Take it."

The muttering stopped. Slowly, Peeta raised his head. "What?" he said.

Gale, who had paused to watch them, made a sound of exasperation and resumed his pacing. Finnick controlled himself slightly better. "Just take it," he said. "Tie knots. Keep your mind off things." When Peeta still made no move to accept is offer, Finnick added, "It worked for me."

"Thanks." Peeta cautiously took the rope, though he didn't tie any knots. He just sort of wound it around his fingers.

They sat in silence for a long, long time. Finally Gale got tired and threw himself to the ground several feet away from both Peeta and Finnick. In about fifteen minutes, though, he was back on his feet.

"I'm thirsty. I'm getting water."

Finnick looked up at him. Gale's tawny District Twelve skin was a sickly yellow in the light of the heater, his eyes monochrome. "You're on guard duty. You're not supposed to leave."

"So?" Gale's tone was irritated, edgy. "It'll take about two minutes."

Finnick kept his tone mild, inoffensive. "That's not the point. It's an assignment. You're on guard duty, so you guard."

"Oh, for Chrissake – " Gale turned away, running his hands through his hair. Swinging back to face Finnick, he said, "Look, all I want is a drink of water – "

"If you're guarding something, you're not supposed to leave it – "

"That's why there's two of us, dumbass!"

Gale glared at Finnick. Finnick glared back. Peeta started talking to himself again. And Boggs strode up, in just as good a mood as Gale. "Is there a problem, soldiers?"

"No, sir," muttered Gale, ducking his head sullenly. But Finnick took it upon himself to say – as was his duty to a superior officer – "Gale wanted to leave his post, sir."

"What the hell!" snapped Gale. "Jesus, Finnick – "

"Well, you did – "

"Oh, f—k," groaned Boggs, walking past them. "Just shut up, both of you."

They did. Gale shot Finnick a venomous look. "Sir – " said Finnick.

"Look," said Boggs, turning to face them. "You're bored. You're irritated. And now we've got a brand-new problem to deal with." He glanced at Peeta, who was apparently oblivious to the whole argument. "But we can't afford to lose our tempers. Soldier Hawthorne, I appreciate your position, but this isn't a situation you can run away from. You've got to stick it out like the rest of us. And Soldier Odair, please try to be mindful of that and treat Soldier Hawthorne appropriately. And if I catch you two arguing like f—king first graders again, you've both got KP for a week. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good night, gentlemen."

"Good night, sir."

Grumbling, Gale sat down again. Finnick toyed with the idea of teasing him – asking him if he was still thirsty – but considering Boggs' admonition and the fact that he'd probably end up getting punched by Gale, it wasn't really worth it.

And after all, Gale really was in a tough position. Finnick should be trying to help him. It was the sort of thing Annie would want him to do. She was big on empathy and helping others.

Ah, Annie…

No one said anything (unless you counted Peeta's muttering) until midnight, when Katniss and Jackson came in for their watch. Finnick, who actually was thirsty now, hiked over to the cantina and filled his water bottle from the big plastic cooler. When he was done, he stepped back, letting Gale fill his own bottle.

"Sorry I called you a dumbass," said Gale.

Finnick took a swig from his bottle. The water _still_ tasted metallic, even though they weren't in Thirteen anymore. "S'all right," he said. "I deserved it."

"Still…" Gale held his hand out. "Pax?"

Finnick frowned at him. "What?"

"It means peace. Truce. Whatever." Gale shrugged. "No more fighting."

"All right, then." Finnick shook Gale's hand. "Pax." He hesitated before saying in a lower voice, "Look, Gale, I really am sorry about…all this." He gestured vaguely to refer to the whole mess with Peeta and Katniss.

Gale shrugged. "It's all right," he said. "But thanks anyway."

* * *

Finnick really wished they'd been issued thicker sleeping bags. He swore he could feel every single bump in the ground through his. Though he'd been lying in the tent he was sharing with Homes for almost an hour, he still was wide awake. Closing his eyes, he started taking deep, rhythmic breaths, hoping it would send him off to sleep…

"These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you," said Peeta. "Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth."

Groaning, Finnick pushed himself up on one elbow. He didn't have to worry about Homes, wrapped in his own sleeping bag like a caterpillar in a cocoon. _He_ slept like a rock.

"I never wanted to kill you," Finnick heard Katniss say. Against the thin tent fabric, Finnick could see her and Peeta's silhouettes, looking like black paper cutouts against the yellow light of the heater. "Except when I thought you were helping the Careers kill me. After that, I always thought of you as … an ally."

Finnick wasn't one to wonder what other people were thinking, but he did with Katniss now. He thought she'd really been in love with Peeta. So why was she suddenly so antagonistic? If Finnick had known Annie before her Games, he still would have loved her once she was mad. Heck, he might even have loved her more.

He'd think Katniss would feel sorry for Peeta, at least. She was no stranger to nightmares and "psychological distress."

"Ally. Friend. Lover. Victor." Peeta began listing a bunch of various titles. "I'll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out." He paused, added, "The problem is, I can't tell what's real anymore and what's made up."

Finnick caught his breath. Annie had said much the same thing to him after her Games… "Help me, Finnick," she had pleaded. "I don't know what's real and what isn't…"

"Then you should ask, Peeta," Finnick spoke up quietly. "That's what Annie does."

* * *

All it took was one step to change everything.

Boggs had been walking backwards, looking for better light to read his Holo. And then there had been the explosion that slammed Finnick into the ground, starbursts of pain shooting up his legs and down his spine. Another one overhead made him instinctively shield his head with his arms –

Someone, either Leeg 1 or Katniss, was screaming. Finnick jerked his head up, seeing nothing but colored stones darkened by soot, conscious of the hot trickle down the side of his head. And then he saw the pool of red.

Finnick scrambled to his feet, but one look at Boggs' mangled limbs and Homes' grim face told him it was too late to do anything for their commander. The others were picking themselves off the ground, running to where Katniss and Homes were bent over Boggs. Messalla lay crumpled at the foot of a wall.

The shock, the adrenaline, was beginning to kick in, making Finnick's pulse race and his breathing speed. His gun and trident swinging from their shoulder strap, he leapt over chunks of tile and rock to reach Messalla. He really, really wished he'd had more medical training, but surely the strange angle of Messalla's wrist wasn't good…

"Sh-t," breathed Finnick, slapping Messalla's face. "C'mon, man, wake up…" He glanced over his shoulder frantically. Katniss was running back to Boggs with something in her hands. Jackson was shouting into her walkie-talkie.

Messalla groaned. There was blood in his cropped blue-black hair, more blood pooling in his ear. Finnick shook his shoulders. "Wake up!" he yelled. But Messalla didn't respond, and Finnick thought, _What if his spine's broken?_

Desperately, he looked around again, hoping someone – maybe Homes – would know what to do. He saw Katniss crouched over Boggs again, her face glowing green with the light from the Holo, and Gale and Leeg 1 standing with their guns at the ready, and tiles bursting from the end of the street as a black fountain gushed forth –

"Prepare to retreat!" yelled Jackson.

"We can't!" shouted Finnick, pointing to the viscous spray of oil, tar, _something_ – "Goddamit, Jackson, there's no way back!"

Gale and Leeg 1 began to fire on the tiles in front of them, trying to trigger any remaining bombs. Finnick seized Messalla under the armpits and hauled him along, the assistant director's head lolling. One of his many ear piercings had been ripped out and blood trickled down his neck. Up in front of him, Katniss and Homes were doing the same with Boggs, and the cries of his commander giving in to pain scared Finnick more than anything else, even more than the black tidal wave behind them –

Peeta lunged forward, grabbing Katniss' shoulders so hard she released Boggs and fell backwards onto the ground. Finnick, his arms burning with Messalla's dead weight, yelled an inarticulate warning as Peeta lifted his gun to smash the butt into Katniss' head –

But Katniss rolled out of the way and Finnick pulled Messalla along though his arm muscles were screaming in protest. Gritting his teeth in determination, Finnick got a firmer grip on Messalla and pulled him almost to the end of the block just as Mitchell flew backwards into the intersection –

A net of barbed wire snapped through the pastel tiles, taking Mitchell with it and enmeshing him in a bloody spider's web. Finnick choked, whether in horror or because of the noxious gases rising off the black wave behind him he didn't know. "Don't move!" screamed Katniss to Mitchell. There was the sound of more gunfire as Gale shot the lock of the door on a building, then turned his gun on the wires that held the net aloft. Boggs was being dragged by Homes and Katniss, Castor, Pollux, and Jackson were trying to restrain Peeta, and Cressida was screaming at Finnick to get inside –

Chest heaving, Finnick hauled Messalla along after those fighting with Peeta. Cressida caught up to him, tried to help him, but another wave of poisonous fumes from the tar made her gag instead and cover her mouth and nose with her hands. Gale was still desperately trying to shoot down the net –

"Leave him!" yelled Finnick, dragging Messalla through the door. "Gale, leave him!" Leeg 1 rushed up beside Cressida, gasping for breath. Gale bounded for the door, throwing himself inside, as Leeg 1 slammed the door shut with all the force in her slight body and the massive surge of the foul-smelling black liquid crashed through the street.

Windows shattered with a tinkling sound and the fumes, smelling of petrol and acid, gushed into the living room. With a final burst of energy, Finnick dragged Messalla down the hallway and into the kitchen where the others were grouped.

"Gale!" screamed Katniss.

Finnick let Messalla fall to the floor, whipping around to see Gale choke "Fumes!" and hunch over the canary-colored sink. The two twins were blocking the cracks around windows and doors with towels. Lightheaded from the poisonous gases, Finnick couldn't make sense of the rest of the scene, the too-bright kitchen and Boggs' strangely shrunken, bloody form on the floor, the muffled pounding coming from somewhere…Finnick held onto the back of a chair, leaned forward, closed his eyes as his head swam and his ears were filled with a dull roaring. Dimly, he heard Homes ask for Mitchell.

Everything was swirling…

At last his head stopped spinning. Cautiously, Finnick raised his head. The room was silent except for everyone's ragged breathing. Finnick took a couple of deep breaths – he could still taste gasoline in the air – and waited for his heart to slow its pounding. He realized his hands were shaking.

The thuds coming from a closet slowed in frequency. Finnick, his eyes flicking over the group, realized they must have shut Peeta in there. And then he saw Boggs, lying gray and red on the white marble floor…

"He's gone?" said Finnick stupidly. Of course he was gone. There was no mistaking the vacancy, the stiffness of his expression. Katniss nodded, blood and ash smeared on her face, and Finnick became aware of the liquid stickiness oozing from his own injury.

"We need to get out of here. Now," he said, swallowing. "We just set off a streetful of pods." His mind flashed back to District Four, to the imaginary camera in his bedroom. "You can bet they've got us on surveillance tapes."

"Count on it. All the streets are covered by surveillance cameras," said the non-Avox twin. "I bet they set off the black wave manually when they saw us taping the propo."

"Our radio communicators went dead almost immediately," said Jackson. Great. "Probably an electromagnetic pulse device. But I'll get us back to camp. Give me the Holo." Jackson reached for the little scuffed box, as was her right as second-in-command, but Katniss drew back, hugging it close.

"No. Boggs gave it to me."

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Jackson. Soot had settled in the creases of her heavily lined face, dusted her black buzz cut with dark gray. She was about to seize the Holo when Homes spoke up.

"It's true. He transferred the prime security clearance to her while he was dying." Homes did not look happy about that, and his voice was sullen. "I saw it."

Jackson turned and rounded on the others, looking for support. "Why would he do that?"

The only person who could possibly have an answer was Katniss, and she just looked bewildered. Finnick felt dizzy again and held on to the chair again, hunching his shoulders as he drew a deep breath, eyes closed. Someone came to stand next to him, the footsteps too light to be Gale or Homes. Finnick opened his eyes and saw Leeg 1, pale and dirty but uninjured.

"Because I'm on a special mission for President Coin," said Katniss. Finnick's head snapped up as he stared at her. "I think Boggs was the only one who knew about it."

"To do what?" said Jackson suspiciously.

"To assassinate President Snow before the loss of life from this war makes our population unsustainable."

Finnick's grip tightened on the chair as he realized what Katniss was doing: taking matters into her own hands, making sure she got the chance to kill Snow. It was risky, there were _so_ many things that could go wrong…and yet, he approved. Because what had just happened only made him want Snow's blood more.

"I don't believe you." Jackson scowled at Katniss. "As your current commander, I order you to transfer the prime security clearance over to me."

"No." Katniss glared back, lips pressed together. "That would be in direct violation of President Coin's orders."

Tension crackled between them. Finnick saw Homes' hands move towards his gun…

In a flash, Finnick had his own gun pointed at Homes. The middle-aged soldier responded just as quickly, training his own weapon on Finnick, but he wasn't the only one. Jackson had her gun pointed at Katniss. Gale had his aimed at Jackson. Leeg 1 pointed hers at Finnick first, then switched it to Katniss.

"It's true." Cressida, the green vines tattooed on her head smudged with soot, stepped to stand next to Katniss. "That's why we're here. Plutarch wants it televised. He thinks if we can film the Mockingjay assassinating Snow, it will end the war."

The guns were slowly being lowered, though Finnick's pulse was racing again. Jackson pointed to the closet with her gun. "And why is he here?"

Katniss looked blank and Cressida jumped in again. "Because the two post-Games interviews with Caesar Flickerman were shot in President Snow's personal quarters. Plutarch thinks Peeta may be of some use as a guide in a location we have little knowledge of."

Finnick wondered what Snow had done to Cressida. And how many other people here might have hidden vendettas of their own –

"We have to go!" snapped Gale. "I'm following Katniss. If you don't want to, head back to camp. But let's move!"

As if anyone _could_ go back. As Homes went to release Peeta, Finnick bent and checked Messalla's pulse. It was regular, as far as he could tell, but other than that he had no clue how to proceed. Cressida hurried over to kneel next to her partner and Finnick stepped away, relieved.

"Ready," said Homes. He had Peeta draped over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"Boggs?" Leeg 1's voice shook slightly.

"We can't take him," said Finnick, walking around the table to where his corpse lay. "He'd understand." Kneeling, he eased the strap of Boggs' gun over his head and shoulders. He paused for a moment to close his dead commander's eyes, wanting badly to say something, but not knowing what. With a sigh, he stood, slinging Boggs' heavy gun across his shoulders.

"Lead on, Soldier Everdeen."

* * *

The living room they entered seemed vaguely familiar to Finnick, with marine blue upholstery and mirrored walls. But at this point, he didn't really care. Unslinging his weapons from his back – his own sleek sniper's rifle, Boggs' chunkier SMG, and the glossy black trident – he propped them up on a cushioned chair and sank onto a sofa gratefully. The pack of ammo he was carrying weighed a ton, and the body armor wasn't helping either. Gale sat down beside him, but his eyes were trained on Katniss. Homes put Peeta down a sigh of relief, Peeta's shaggy blond head hanging off one end of a futon and his booted feet off the other. Everyone else was depositing weapons, collapsing into seats. Finnick closed his eyes and leaned back into the cushions, massaging his temples. Apparently one of the aftereffects of the poison fumes was a wicked headache.

Far away, explosions sounded like a drumroll, making the floor shake. Finnick jerked his eyes open, but Jackson said, "It wasn't close. A good four or five blocks away." Relaxing, Finnick sank back into the cushions.

Leeg 1, her eyes red-rimmed – whether from smoke or tears Finnick didn't know – added, "Where we left Boggs."

Right as she said his name, the wall-sized TV screen lit up with a video of the street they had just left, a high-pitched beeping issuing from it. Finnick leapt to his feet, automatically reaching for his rifle, but Cressida shouted, "It's all right! It's just an emergency broadcast. Every Capitol television is automatically activated for it."

But Finnick remained on his feet, staring at the TV. There he was, being filmed from above. Finnick saw himself rush over to Messalla, saw Katniss retrieve what he realized was the Holo and Peeta attack her and Gale try futilely to save Mitchell, saw the wave of goop rush through the street and cover the lenses of the cameras with blackness.

"The soldiers have been identified as Gale Hawthorne, Finnick Odair, Savin Boggs, Peeta Mellark, Cressida Trace, and Katniss Everdeen," said the reporter, her voice professional and unshaken. "They are rebel soldiers of District Thirteen. The public is warned that they are armed and extremely dangerous."

"There's no aerial footage. Boggs must have been right about their hovercraft capacity," said non-Avox twin. Well, it was comforting to know they weren't going to be bombed into oblivion.

There was more camera footage, and even though Finnick knew he was blocks away, he still felt his heart pound in fear when he saw the squads of black-clad Peacekeepers, the missiles being fired into the apartment building where they had shattered. With a pang, he thought of Boggs, his body being immolated without anyone knowing it was there…

"As you can see, the apartment building where the rebels took refuge has been completely destroyed," said the reporter, standing on a rooftop, accompanied by Peackeepers, her black tuxedo suit and spiked magenta hair immaculate. "We are confident that all the soldiers listed are dead."

"Finally, a bit of luck," said Homes.

Strategically, yes, but…

"My father. He just lost my sister and now…" Leeg 1's voice trailed off.

Oh no.

Annie.

Finnick felt himself grow pale as he realized that it wasn't just Capitol citizens who were seeing this, it was everyone in Thirteen, too…His knees felt weak and he sat back down, staring at the TV without really seeing it. Oh God. Annie. Oh _God._ This would destroy her for sure…

His hands started shaking uncontrollably and he clenched them together, propping his chin up on his fists. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Over and over the Capitol broadcast played images of their destruction, of the bomb blowing Boggs' legs out from under him, of the apartment being reduced to a pile of flaming rubble. At last Finnick couldn't take it and he lurched off his seat, twisting away to stand in a dark corner of the room with his back to the TV. Holding onto a mirrored wall, his hand leaving sweaty streaks on its polished surface, he tried to take deep, slow breaths to steady himself.

"Finnick?" Gale had walked up beside him.

"What will this do to her?" Finnick whispered, turning to him. He saw Leeg 1's head swivel towards them over the back of the sofa. "Gale, what will Annie do when she thinks I'm dead."

Clearly Gale hadn't thought about this aspect of their supposed defeat. "My mom," he gasped, face paling. "Rory, Vick…Posy – "

They stared at each other, each horrorstruck by the realization of the all-too acute grief their loved ones were feeling. "What do we do?" said Finnick.

"We win," said Gale grimly. "We win this war and show them that we're not dead after all."

That was all very well, thought Finnick as they returned to their seats. But what state would Annie be in even if they did win?

* * *

At last, the emergency broadcast was over. "So, now that we're dead," said Gale, not really pulling off the nonchalant attitude, "what's our next move?"

Finnick expected Katniss to answer, or maybe Jackson or Cressida, but it was Peeta who did, awkwardly pushing himself into a seated position with his cuffed hands. "Isn't it obvious?" he said. "Our next move…is to kill me."

Well, that was blunt.

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Jackson. The stress was really wearing down on her, Finnick could tell.

"I just murdered a member of our squad!" shouted Peeta. Finnick could only see the back of his head, but he could imagine his tormented expression.

"You pushed him off you," said Finnick, keeping his tone even. "You couldn't have known he would trigger the next pod at that exact spot." His sympathy for Peeta was warring with his fear – yes, he admitted it, fear – of his homicidal episodes.

"Who cares? He's dead, isn't he?" said Peeta. Finnick pressed long fingers to his temples, trying to quell his headache. "I didn't know. I've never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right. I'm the monster. I'm the mutt." He sounded like he was crying, and if Finnick hadn't been exasperated, he probably would have been embarrassed. "I'm the one Snow has turned into a weapon!"

Finnick pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not your fault, Peeta," he said with forced calm.

"You can't take me with you." Peeta's tone was ragged, desperate. "It's only a matter of time before I kill someone else." He paused, added, "Maybe you think it's kinder to just dump me somewhere. Let me take my chances. But that's the same thing as handing me over to the Capitol. Do you think you'd be doing me a favor by sending me back to Snow?"

Finnick couldn't suppress his irritated grimace. No one was dumping Peeta anywhere. Katniss would carry him herself if she had to. He accepted Peeta was upset, but did he really need all the melodramatics?

_You're being mean_, he chided himself. _Be nice to him like Annie would_.

It hurt to think of Annie. Finnick rubbed at the sharp pain in his chest. Beside him, Gale rose from his seat to look down at Peeta, one hand resting on the back of the futon.

"I'll kill you before that happens," Gale said to Peeta. "I promise."

For Katniss' sake, he was trying to keep his tone neutral, but Finnick could hear the subtle layer of menace that turned it from a promised mercy kill into a threat. Finnick was suddenly very glad he didn't have Gale as his enemy.

"It's no good," said Peeta. "What if you're not there to do it?" The brief expression that Finnick caught on Gale's face made him think Gale would try very, very hard to be there. "I want one of those poison pills like the rest of you have."

Finnick had all but forgotten about the little purple pill in his breast pocket. Purposely forgotten, really. Pills were too closely related to the medical profession for him to be comfortable with them.

"It's not about you," said Katniss. Finnick agreed with her. "We're on a mission. And you're necessary to it." Well, Finnick disagreed with that, but they couldn't leave Peeta behind and however much of a liability he was, it would be wrong to kill him.

He just hoped Mitchell would be the only one to die because of Peeta.

* * *

There was an odd mixture of fear and hate running through Finnick's veins. Hate, because they'd seen Snow's special message fifteen minutes ago on the TV, and Finnick hadn't really realized how much he despised that man until he saw him gloating over their deaths, painted up like a clown. Fear, because he'd seen the Holo, and there were about a thousand pods between them and the president.

Fortunately, they had another option: underground. As they squeezed through the maintenance shaft, the cameramen clutching their handhelds to their chests (Finnick didn't understand who they were filming for, but he knew why they'd brought cameras – it was the only thing they felt they could do), he tried very hard to keep his mind on the here and now. But it was hard. He couldn't help picturing what he would do when he reached Snow, planning out how he would kill him.

At last they reached the center apartment. Finnick was sure he'd been in this one, or at least an apartment with a very similar layout. The manhole-like entrance was exactly where he'd thought it would be.

Eyebrows pulled together, Messalla tapped the metal circle of the lid with his boot heel. "It's why no one ever wants the center unit. Workmen coming and going whenever and no second bath. But the rent's considerably cheaper." Finnick smirked, remembering when he'd had to hide down one of these tubes from a jealous husband. Messalla seemed to think he was laughing at him, however, and quickly shook his head. "Never mind."

In silence, they lifted the cover, climbed down the ladder into the sewers. As Finnick's eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw a world far more complicated than the pretty pastel one above it. Pipes and tubes ran everywhere, crossing over each other; tunnel after tunnel intersected each other or opened up into spaces so wide the other side was hidden in haze. Two stories down, streams of sewage bubbled sluggishly under their feet, and there were catwalks everywhere, either bolted to the walls or suspended from the ceiling. The dirtied fluorescent lights colored the gray metal dark olive green. Several of the pipes oozed jets of steam, and a foul smell, composed of rotten eggs, mold, and harsh chemicals wafted about them.

The Avox twin staggered, clutching his brother's wrist. His twin supported him, said, "My brother worked down here after he became an Avox. Took five years before we were able to buy his way up to ground level. Didn't see the sun once."

That was…horrible. There was no other word for it. Finnick tried to imagine having to work here for five years, with only the faintest hope of escape, and quailed at the thought. And he felt intensely for the Avox, forced to return somewhere he'd thought he'd never have to be again. No wonder he looked sick. Finnick wanted to commiserate, find some way to express his sympathy, but his tongue was stuck. He looked down at his hands instead. He heard a distant, mechanical rumble, and closer, the steady drip-drip of water.

It was Peeta, of all people, who broke the silence. "Well, then you just became our most valuable asset." That broke the tension – non-Avox twin laughed quietly, ruffling the hair on his brother's head – and they set off down the tunnel. Pollux and Katniss took the lead. Then Peeta, dragging his feet and flanked by a grim Jackson and a grimmer Gale. Non-Avox twin, Cressida, and Messalla formed a tight little pack. After them was Leeg 1, then Homes, and Finnick brought up the rear, his sniper's rifle in his hands, his ears pricked and his eyes peeled. Because just because they were underground didn't mean they were any safer.

After hours of walking, fatigue began to set in. Finnick, thinking of the Peacekeepers digging through the ruined apartments, felt like there was a clock ticking away, counting down their time until discovery. Its seconds beat away in rhythm with his pulse, his footsteps that echoed on the slimy metal. Even when they finally stopped to catch a few hours of sleep, the clock continued. Finnick thought of Nuts, back in the arena. Maybe she hadn't been so crazy after all.

Tick, tock, indeed.

* * *

Finnick felt himself being roused from an uneasy slumber. He groaned, opened his eyes, found Katniss bending over him and shaking his shoulder. "What time is it?" he mumbled.

"Almost seven," she answered, and moved to wake Homes. Finnick sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair. They were sure to have found the absence of their bodies by now. The clock was ticking faster.

"Wait!" Katniss' voice echoed around the small room. "Everyone, hush!"

They all froze automatically, listening. Finnick, straining his ears, could hear a low, uneven hissing that hadn't been there when he woke up. Frowning, he listened harder…

"_Katniss._"

Finnick started at the low hiss. It sounded a second time, and he looked around wildly, trying to identify the sound. Leeg 1 nudged his arm, pointed. And Finnick looked down and saw a still-sleeping Peeta, his lips forming Katniss' name, Katniss standing over him with an arrow nocked and drawn, and Finnick realized, _There's something coming after us…_

"Katniss!" Peeta jerked awake, panicking. "Katniss! Get out of here!"

She didn't run, as was Finnick's instinct, but frowned instead. "Why? What's making that sound?"

"I don't know," gasped Peeta. "Only that it has to kill you. Run! Get out! Go!"

_Yes! Let's go!_ Finnick wanted to scream. The hissing was growing louder, and the clock was ticking faster, and instead Katniss relaxed her grip on her bow and turned to the others with a calm expression. "Whatever it is, it's after me. It might be a good time to split up," she said.

"But we're your guard," said Jackson, frowning.

"And your crew." The low light shone on Cressida's shaved scalp.

"I'm not leaving you," said Gale fiercely, eyes burning.

They should have left right then, taking off at a run down the tunnels. But they had to distribute weapons, make sure even the film crew, who didn't even know how to fire a gun, were armed. "Finnick," said Katniss. "Give one of your guns to Castor. Someone eject the blank cartridge from Peeta's, load it with a real one, and arm Pollux." She unslung her own gun and handed it to Cressida.

Finnick pulled the strap of the sniper rifle over his head, handed it to the non-Avox twin. As he loaded Peeta's rifle, he could feel his pulse pounding in his stomach, counting down time, making his fingers slip in their haste as he fumbled to load the clip. No sooner had was the gun loaded than he handed it to Pollux and sprang for the door, throat dry.

But _still_ they couldn't leave. Katniss insisted they take everything from the room that they had brought, including empty food cans. Finnick wanted to shake her, to scream at her. _Can't you see our time is running out?_

They started moving, not sprinting like Finnick wanted to, but a brisk walk. He chafed at the restraint, feeling driven onward by the pulsing urgency. They weren't moving silently, so why on earth couldn't they just run –

Unearthly, horrible yells rose up behind them. Finnick halted in his tracks so suddenly Gale crashed into him, his heart clogging his throat.

"Avoxes," said Peeta at once, his pale face shining with sweat in the gloom. "That's what Darius sounded like when they tortured him."

"The mutts must have found them," whispered Cressida.

Leeg 1's eyes were wide, panicked. "So they're not just after Katniss."

"They'll probably kill anyone." Gale's voice was tight. "It's just that they won't stop until they get to her." Finnick couldn't help glancing behind him, dreading what monsters he might see bearing down on them with bloody jaws. Why, oh _why_ couldn't they get going again…

"Let me go on alone," said Katniss. "Lead them off. I'll transfer the Holo to Jackson. The rest of you can finish the mission."

Jackson looked fed up with Katniss' martyr instinct. "No one's going to agree to that!" she snapped.

"We're wasting time!" said Finnick desperately. Let's go, we have to go _now…_

"Listen," whispered Peeta.

Louder now, the hissing whispers rose from below and behind them. _Katniss, Katniss,_ _KATNISSSS…_

At last, they started running. But all too soon they stopped, at the stairs that would take them down. Finnick knew the mutts were waiting for them below, and he could see why Katniss and Pollux would want to consult the Holo, but couldn't they move at the same time?  
Suddenly Katniss hunched over, gagging. Jackson snapped out a command to put their masks on, but Finnick didn't bother. Because he could smell what Katniss did – roses – and though it didn't affect him, he'd realized it was Snow's message to her a long time ago.

Stumbling, she swerved to the right. Finnick ran right alongside her and came out onto the tiled streets that mimicked those on the surface, bright, clean and unreal after the dank gloom of the sewers. Katniss shot down the first pod, creating an explosion that seared strangely-colored shapes onto Finnick's dark-adjusted eyes. Then she ran, and Finnick followed with the others, but all too soon they had to stop –

"Watch out!" shouted Katniss. "Only step where I step!" She began to move forward, hugging the wall. Finnick, right behind her, glanced over his shoulder to make sure everyone was following and froze –

"Katniss!" he shouted, voice strained and cracking, his hand on her elbow. She whipped around, braid flying over one shoulder, gray eyes wide. For Messalla had taken one misstep into the street and was now frozen in a beam of golden light, stuck in misstep, screaming silently as his features blurred, liquefied, his clothes disintegrating and his flesh melting…Finnick stared in horror, heart pounding so hard and fast it might break his ribs, and though he wanted to run and the clock was ticking his feet were glued to the floor –

A rough hand shoved him off balance and Finnick automatically jerked his SMG up, ready for defense. But it was Peeta, spurring everyone into motion. "Can't help him!" he shouted, pushing Katniss forward. "Can't!"

They sprinted, ran for their lives, Finnick's breath scraping in his throat and his trident bouncing painfully against his back. Katniss skidded to a stop at the next intersection, and almost at the same time gunfire ricocheted around them. Finnick slammed into a wall to halt himself, threw himself into a crouch. Behind them, back the way they had come, was a squad of Peackeepers running towards them. Finnick brought the gun to his shoulder, fired. His heart was pounding and his throat was dry and his sweaty palms were sticking to the trigger of his gun –

With a reptilian skitter, the mutts burst out onto the street, decapitating the remaining Peackeepers with razor-blade teeth. Finnick saw white leathery skin, long bony limbs, lizardlike tails and human-shaped heads with no eyes, just flaring nostrils and snarling mouths full of teeth…

"This way!" screamed Katniss as the mutts headed for them. Their boots pounding on the tiles, the squad followed her, skirting the center of the intersection, and when all had reached the other side Katniss fired into the street, triggering flashing metallic teeth, clouds of dust, a whirring roar that almost drowned out the hissing that was closer to a screech.

"Forget the mission," shouted Katniss, seizing the Avox's arm. "What's the quickest way aboveground?"

Finnick didn't bother to think. He just followed her and Pollux, barely aware of the switch from bright white to dank gray and the smell of chemicals against the roses, the flaming, steaming, noxious sewage hissing and bubbling beneath them. Finnick swallowed hard as he tried to move his feet faster on the slimy, narrow path and across the catwalk that was a foot-wide metal grid with minimal handrails. Pollux slapped a ladder, pointed.

"Wait!" Katniss stared at their diminished group. "Where are Jackson and Leeg One?"

"They stayed at the Grinder to hold the mutts back," said Homes.

Finnick was dying to go, to leave, but Katniss leapt for the bridge, stopped only by Homes' hard hand on her arm. "Don't waste their lives, Katniss," he shouted. "It's too late for them. Look!"

Hordes upon hordes of the mutts were pouring out of the pipe they had come from. And even when Gale blew the narrow bridge up, they still came, clinging to the walls, charging through the sewage despite the acid that burned their skin, ripping and clawing at each other in their bloodlust…

Katniss was frozen, staring at them with a pale face. "Let's go!" shouted Finnick. Gale and Peeta were yelling, too. "Katniss! Move!"

Gale lunged forward, picked her up as she fired at the closest mutt, forced her to climb the ladder after Pollux. Then Peeta. Cressida. Gale jumped down beside Finnick, fired explosive arrows into the mass of mutts.

"Go!" roared Homes over the horrific noise of the mutts shrieking. "Get out of here!" Finnick leapt for the ladder, climbing frantically. He reached a platform, skidded around, gun pointing below. Gale jumped up beside him, breathing harsh. "Homes?" gasped Finnick.

Gale shook his head jerkily, blood running from the wound on his neck. Finnick realized Castor was gone, too – he hadn't even realized –

Mutts were scrambling up the ladder. Finnick aimed, fired a spray of bullets that sent a dozen tumbling to their deaths, only to be replaced by more. Gale's exploding arrow was just as effective.

"There's too many!" yelled Gale. "I can't climb and shoot – "

"I'll hold them off!" shouted Finnick. He fired again, seeing red spray from the white bodies. "Just get out of here!"

"I'm not leaving – "

"GO!"

Gale's hand was hard on his shoulder for the briefest instant, and then he was gone. Finnick sent out bullets until he was out of ammo, but the mutts still came. Heart pounding painfully, lungs gasping for air, he threw down his gun and leapt for the ladder, sweaty hands scrabbling desperately on the metal rungs. Claws raked his leg from knee to ankle and he cried out, willing himself desperately to move faster. But stench of roses was suffocating him, and sharp claws grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and he supposed that if he were the hero of a novel, he might have died with Annie's name on his lips, but as it was his mind was blank as the razor-sharp teeth swept towards his naked throat –


	14. In Radiance Undimmed

_Once there was a way to get back homeward_

_Once there was a way to get back home_

_Sleep pretty darling do not cry_

_And I will sing a lullabye_

_Golden slumbers fill your eyes_

_Smiles awake you when you rise_

_Sleep pretty darling do not cry_

_And I will sing a lullabye_

_ – Lennon/McCartney

* * *

_

Finnick became conscious of a deep warmth soaking into him, permeating his skin. The closest thing he could think of was lying on the beach, eyes closed, letting the sun warm him, but the energy that poured through him now was gentler than the sun, gentler and yet more powerful.

Gradually he realized that he was not, as he had supposed, lying down. Rather, he was being supported – in fact cradled – in someone's arms. From the smoothness of the skin and gentleness of the person's fingers on his face, he decided it must be a woman. Curious as to who it was, he opened his eyes.

The face that smiled down on him was one he hadn't seen since he was four – and yet he knew her instantly. Long bronze ringlets of hair, brushed with gold – smiling blue-gray eyes – a face that glowed with internal laughter –

"Hi," said Finnick, smiling.

Gaila Odair ran her fingers through his hair. "Finnick," she crooned. "Fin, Fin, Finnick, Finnie…"

"I'm dead, aren't I?" asked Finnick. But he couldn't feel sad. Or afraid.

"In earthly terms you are, darling," said Gaila. "But you can't be in two places at once."

That made sense to Finnick. But this talk of places made him wonder where he was. Sitting up, he looked around him, taking in everything with fresh eyes.

He and Gaila were sitting at the edge of a broad expanse of an undefined pearly substance not unlike clouds. Far away in the distance it merged with something soft and golden that wasn't sky, wasn't ground, but something in between. If Finnick looked to his left, he could just see the pearly spires of a fantastic city, glittering against a crystal-blue sky.

"Are we alone?" he asked Gaila, though it was hard to feel lonely under the golden radiance they were bathed in.

Smiling, Gaila shook her head and pointed to the city. "No," she said. "See?"

Finnick looked to the approaching figure and leapt to his feet, gasping in joy. "Dad!" he cried, and running over, was engulfed in Riley's bear hug.

Laughing, Riley thumped his back, then held Finnick out at arm's length. Laughing himself, Finnick put his hands on Riley's shoulders. "You look good, Dad," he said.

And Riley _did_ look good – younger than Finnick remembered him, the laugh lines on his face indicators not of age but joy. Seeing his father's impressive physique, looking down at his own tanned chest, Finnick became aware that he was free of any bodily imperfections, any scars or flaws.

"I'm so proud of you, lad," said Riley. "I really am. What you've been through – it was the hardest thing in the world for me to watch. But you pulled through."

"Yeah – yeah, I did," said Finnick, voice breaking. Gaila came up beside Riley, linked her arm through his with obvious affection, and Riley kissed her hair.

"Is – is everyone here?" asked Finnick.

Gaila smiled. "They've all come to greet you," she said softly.

Finnick looked back towards the city. And now he could see Connor, hair black without a single silver hair, and Dalia, her glossy dark brown hair tumbling to her waist, each leading a child by the hand. Finnick moved to them, embraced each one. "Connor – Dalia – I'm so sorry –"

"Don't be," said Dalia, looking so much more relaxed than she ever had before. "My children will grow up in a world without fear or pain. What mother could want more?"

Another woman was walking up to them, with long orange-red hair and blue eyes. She looked vaguely familiar to Finnick, and he frowned, trying to place her –

"Don't ya know me, Finnick?" she asked, smiling.

"Mags!" gasped Finnick. And it was her, only fifty years younger. Finnick stared at her, speechless. "How – "

"Ah, Finnick." She walked up to him, kissed him on the forehead. "Welcome home."

And others were coming from the city, too – Boggs, smiling and no longer gray-haired – Seamus, Annie's partner in her Hunger Games – Jade, Finnick's first and only ally in his own Games – and others, all the people he'd had to part with over the years –

"I can't believe this," said Finnick. "Really, I – " He stopped, unable to say what he felt.

But, happy as he was, there was still someone missing…

"Annie's still…down there?" he asked.

He didn't know how he felt about that. All his life, he had been trained to think of death as a bad thing. But now he realized that it was only the separation itself that was painful. He could think of nothing better than for Annie to be with him, here, in this paradise of golden light and love.

Gaila smiled, took his hand. "Come," she said.

Finnick obeyed, walking with her to where the pearly floor they were standing on dissolved into insubstantial wisps. Far, far beneath it, rolled out like a carpet, was a panoply of shapes and colors that resolved into continents, countries, cities. And the amazing thing was, no matter how hard Finnick looked, he could always see more detail…

With a start of surprise, he found the Capitol, its pristine streets sullied. The City Circle in the center was blackened and ruined, as if by many explosions, and gray-clad soldiers patrolled the streets.

"They won?" he gasped.

Gaila nodded solemnly. "The rebels won," she said. "But that hardly means anything, now."

Knowing what she meant, Finnick sighed. "Is Annie there?"

"Close your eyes," said Gaila, smiling.

Finnick did so.

"Now just think of her."

"Huh?"

"Think of her. Go to her. It's not hard. I visited you and your father many times."

Finnick took a breath, thought of Annie. It wasn't hard to conjure up thoughts of smooth skin, scented hair, eyes like the sea after a storm…

He opened his eyes and found himself staring right at her.

They were in a room, in the Capitol, Finnick assumed, because no compartment in District Thirteen would have allowed gilt window frames and teal velvet bed covers. Annie sat at the foot of the bed, back straight, dressed in an ivory silk slip. Her eyes were focused on nothing, and Finnick's heart ached…

"Annie," he said quietly. "Mermaid, can you hear me?"

She did not respond. How could she?

Throat tight, Finnick sat next to her on the bed, put one arm around her, put his other hand on hers. "I love you, mermaid," he whispered brokenly, kissed her on the temple.

Whether prompted by his words or something else, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, eyes filled with tears. Finnick leaned his head on her shoulder, ran his hand up her arm, wishing desperately there was some way he could let her know he was still there, still loved her with everything he had.

The door of the room opened, and Finnick saw Evans walk in. Annie turned her face towards her.

"How are you doing?" asked Evans quietly.

Annie managed a little smile. "I'm all right," she said.

Evans nodded, but didn't say anything. She looked like she had aged years in the few days since Finnick had last seen her.

There was silence for a little while, and then Annie drew a deep breath. "You know," she said, looking at the opposite wall, "a lot of people expected me to go off the deep end when Finnick died."

"I know," said Evans.

"But I couldn't," said Annie, looking back at the nurse. "I can't." She stopped, expression a heart-breaking mixture of sadness and hope. "Not when I'm not living for myself anymore." And she placed a hand on her stomach.

They had a child…Finnick wrapped his arms around Annie, kissed her cheek.

"We have to go now," said Evans. "For Snow's execution."

"I – I know," said Annie. "Just give a minute?"

Evans nodded, left the room. Annie stayed seated for a moment longer. Then she took a breath and got up, putting on the knee-length navy blue coat that was draped over a chair. As she buttoned it, she turned towards where Finnick was standing, and looked straight into his eyes.

He couldn't tell if she was seeing him or not. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, her hands frozen on the buttons of her coat. For a long, long time they stared at each other. Finnick's heart felt like it was breaking out of his chest, making tears come to his eyes. Slowly, he reached out to touch Annie's face, but she was standing just out of his reach…

With a little shake, Annie turned and walked to the door, slipping on champagne-colored heels. She did not look back as she opened the door, but Finnick saw her hand tremble on the handle.

"I love you, mermaid," he whispered again.

She stepped over the threshold, faltered. And Finnick was sure he saw a tear trace its crystal path down her cheek before she shut the door behind her.

* * *

And one day eight-year-old Culainn will be sitting at the table, eating the fish sticks his mother made him. He will have bronze hair like his father, but turquoise eyes and pale skin like his mother, and he will ask, "Mom, what's the Hunger Games?"

And Annie, up to her elbows in dishwater, will freeze. "Where did you hear about that?" she will ask, turning to her son.

"Nowhere," he will say, though he really overheard the big kids at school talking about it, and he will wonder why his mother is so pale. "What is it?"

Annie will turn back to the dishes, though her eyes go first to the picture of the bronze-haired man hanging on the wall. "Nothing," she will say, though her fingers will shake as she picks up a plate. "Nothing at all."


	15. Alternate Ending: Yea, Though I Walk

_Warning: this chapter is not for canon purists. This is for those of us who do see elves, who believe that you can still get to Narnia through the wardrobe, and know that Sirius Black isn't dead, he's just on the other side of the archway._

Heart pounding painfully, lungs gasping for air, Finnick threw down his gun and leapt for the ladder, sweaty hands scrabbling desperately on the metal rungs. Claws raked his leg from knee to ankle and he cried out, willing himself desperately to move faster. But the stench of roses was suffocating him, and sharp claws grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and he supposed that if he were the hero of a novel, he might have died with Annie's name on his lips, but as it was his mind was blank as the razor-sharp teeth swept towards his naked throat –

An explosion rocked the metal walls, deafening Finnick and breaking his hold on the slippery metal. With a yell, he plummeted downwards, hands frantically trying to grasp _something_ –

Gasping, he jerked to a halt as his hands made contact with the corrugated metal ridge, his feet dangling above the toxic, flaming stew into which all the mutts had plummeted.

Well, all but one.

With a hiss, it skittered down the slimy wall towards Finnick. Grunting, Finnick swung his legs and planted his boot in the mutt's ugly face. It screeched, lost its grip, and tumbled headfirst into the sewage.

Finnick hung there for a moment, panting, his heart hammering. When he had gotten some control over himself, he tried to pull himself back onto the ledge. But his feet, scrabbling on the oozing metal of the wall, couldn't find any purchase and his arms suddenly gave out, making him fall back and almost lose his grip again. Beneath him, the foul sewage hissed and bubbled, only four or five feet away…

Teeth clenched, Finnick heaved himself up by the strength of his arms alone, biceps screaming, face contorted and beaded with sweat. At last with a gasp he tumbled onto the ledge. For a minute he simply lay there facedown, trying to catch his breath. Then he pushed himself up on his arms, got to his feet, looked up.

There was nothing left of the ladder except twisted bits of metal. Finnick could see light through the jagged hole in the ceiling, but not very much. There was no sign of Katniss or the others.

Well, they probably thought he was dead.

There was an odd rumbling sound. Finnick flattened himself against the wall just as a pipe opened not a foot away from him, allowing a deluge of steaming, filthy water to splash into the muck below. The stench was overpowering. Finnick gagged, turning away and covering his nose with his arm.

It was a reminder to Finnick that he didn't know _anything_ about what went on in the Capitol's sewers. He needed to get out of here. Fast.

And for that, he need a guide.

* * *

After hours of searching through the tunnels (and in the process becoming hopelessly lost), Finnick had to conclude that all the Avoxes had either run away or been eaten by mutts. Because the tunnels and pipes were completely, absolutely deserted. Finnick wouldn't have minded so much if there had been an obvious way to the surface. But there wasn't. A ladder might go up two or three levels, but not all of them. The ones that Finnick suspected _did_ lead to the surface were locked. With numerical codes. Or voice-recognition technology.

And Finnick was starting to get desperate. He'd already had three close shaves – twice with pods (one that sent saw blades whizzing menacingly through the air, and one that released a spray of yellow acid that ate even metal away) and once when he'd slipped on a catwalk, saving himself from tumbling to his death only by clutching one of the metal supports. And there was his injured leg, too. The mutt claws had scored it from knee to the top of his boot, tearing the leg of his uniform into ribbons and carving bloody streaks into his calf. He'd tried to mop it up as best he could with the remnants of his pants leg, but there wasn't nearly enough fabric to stop the bleeding. Every step he took made it burn like hell. And he didn't want to even _think_ about the germs and filth that had accumulated on the mutt's claws.

Limping, he staggered to a halt, leaning against a wall in a low, square tunnel, with pipes running along the ceiling. Somewhere, _somewhere _in this infernal place there had to be an Avox mad enough to stay…

Movement at the end of the tunnel caught Finnick's eye. He squinted, trying to make out what it was through the haze.

A burst of hot air from one of the pipes cleared the steam somewhat and Finnick was able to make out a dark-man shape, busily working on something. Finnick caught the fitful gleam of sparks and realized he was welding.

"Hey!" shouted Finnick, voice cracking slightly after being silent for so many hours. "Hey! Can you help me?"

Whoever it was did not respond, though Finnick's words echoed all around the tunnel. Finnick began to jog towards him, favoring his wounded leg, footsteps reverberating on the metal floor. "I'm lost," he said, slowing to a halt beside the man. "Can you help me out?"

Still, the welder did not answer. Finnick couldn't see his face – it was covered by a protective visor – but the gray jumpsuit he wore was grimy with what looked like years of accumulated filth. Fire flared up again from the man's gas torch and Finnick looked to what he was welding.

It was nothing. Just scraps of metal, placed in haphazard patterns on the wall. "Um…right, then." Finnick swallowed, turned to go, and was stopped by an iron grip on his arm. Alarmed, he snapped back around to face the welder.

He had raised his mask, revealing a heavily lined, hawklike face, the jaw coated with dark stubble. One of his eyes was a flinty blue. The other was hidden behind a black eyepatch.

"Um…hi," said Finnick.

The welder said nothing, only continued to stare at Finnick with one sharp eye.

"Listen, I've got to get out of here," said Finnick. "So if you're not going to help me, can you at least let me go?"

He tried to pull his arm out of the man's gloved hand, but his grasp was as firm as steel. Finnick considered striking him, but before he could move the welder had held up four fingers, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"I don't understand," said Finnick. "Sorry," he added hastily, as the man's forehead contracted either in anger or irritation.

Deliberately, he showed Finnick numbers one through five on his fingers. Then, releasing Finnick's arm, he went up to ten. Then showed him ten fingers, one. Ten fingers, two.

Bewildered, Finnick shook his head. "I still don't…"

The man repeated the sequence. Numbers one through twelve.

` "Is it – is it twelve things?" said Finnick. He felt like he was trapped in some horrible version of a childhood party game. "Twelve? What has – Oh! Twelve districts?"

Looking grimly pleased, the man nodded. He showed four fingers again, then pointed to Finnick.

"Am I from District Four? Yeah, yeah I am." He looked at the welder curiously. "How could you tell? My accent?"

The man nodded again, pointed to himself.

"You're from District Four too?"

Another affirmative response. Finnick, encouraged, asked, "Will you help me get out of here?"

The man jerked his head upwards. "Yeah," said Finnick. "To the surface." He waited, added, "Please?"

Nodding, the man tapped himself on the chest, grinned. Finnick felt himself smile in relief. "Thanks!" he said. "I mean it, you saved my life – "

His savior set off at a smart trot down the hallway. Finnick hurried to catch up with him, grimacing each time he had to put weight on his wounded leg. "Hey…do you think you could slow down a little?"

The man's fingers dug into his arm again, his one eye fixing Finnick with a piercing glare. Finnick gulped. "Okay, no slowing down. Got it."

Releasing his arm with a sharp nod, the man set off down the hallway again. Abruptly, he turned right down a narrow shaft through which he could barely fit the welding equipment he was lugging with him. "Here," said Finnick, once they were through the tunnel. "Let me take some of that."

Without even looking behind him, the man handed Finnick his blowtorch. "Um, right," said Finnick. "Lead on, then."

* * *

They walked only for an hour at the most. By that point, Finnick's exhaustion, thirst, and injured leg forced him to stop.

"I can't," he gasped, leaning against the wall of the narrow ventilation shaft, the blowtorch clattering to the ground beside him. "I really can't go on. I've got to rest."

Making a remarkably expressive sound of disgust deep in his throat, the one-eyed man turned away from Finnick. One hand clutching his leg above the calf, Finnick slid down the wall to the floor.

"Do you have water?" he begged.

The man turned around, an expression of surprise appearing on his face when he saw Finnick on the floor – at least, his eye widened and his mouth pressed itself into a thin line. With a grime-darkened, gloved hand, he gestured peremptorily for Finnick to get up.

"I can't," repeated Finnick. "I'm thirsty. And my leg is injured – see?" He stretched out his leg for the man's inspection, holding the bloody rags of his pant leg back.

The man crouched down, looking at the wounds with professional interest. Finnick twisted his leg so the man could see the four bloody lacerations on his calf better. Though the bleeding had stopped, they were still bright scarlet, crusted with maroon. Blood had dripped down his leg to glue his black sock to his ankle. There were streaks of brown and green mixed with the red on his skin from where he had ineffectually tried to clean the wounds.

With a grunt, the man sat back on his heels. Finnick massaged his aching leg and watched in bemusement as the man drew a stub of neon orange chalk (probably normally used for marking things) from his pocket. In a large, childish hand, he scrawled out the word _FRIEND?_ on the floor in glowing letters.

"Huh?" Finnick stared at the letters, eyes watering slightly in pain and the bright glow in the dark tunnel. "Yeah, I'm your friend…"

Shaking his head impatiently, the man slapped the ground next to the word, then pointed upwards.

"Oh." Finnick's heart sank. Once he did get to the surface, he would be alone and defenseless. Katniss and whatever was left of Squad 451 would (hopefully) be impossible to find. And of all the "lovers" he had had, he doubted there was one that would care about him enough to actually shelter him…

"Actually, I do know one person," said Finnick. "Aurelia Beechgrove, 417 Aquamarine Court." He looked hopefully at the man. "Do you know how to get there?"

Balanced on the balls of his feet, the man stared down at the floor. With a sudden jerk that made Finnick start, he rose to his feet. Putting his folded hands under his head, he mimed sleep, then pointed to Finnick.

"You want me to sleep?" said Finnick, voice cracking with exhaustion. "Here? Is it safe?"

The man shrugged. Finnick slumped to the floor, careful to keep the weight off his injured leg, and he was asleep almost before his eyelids had closed.

* * *

Finnick's eyelids felt like they were glued together. Groaning, he cracked them open, feeling strangely disoriented. Part of it had to do with not knowing whether it was day or night. Part of it had to do with his dehydration.

Wincing at the soreness in his arms and shoulders, he pushed himself upright. His leg no longer ached – it was now numb. Finnick, looking down on it, saw that it had been clumsily bandaged with what were at least moderately clean strips of cloth. The one-eyed man sat across from Finnick with his back to the wall, a metal flask in his hand. When he saw Finnick was awake, he held the flask out to him.

"Thanks," said Finnick fervently, taking it. At the first taste of water in his parched mouth, he wanted to guzzle all of it down in about ten seconds, but he'd learned early on while mentoring that one of the worst things to do was drink or eat too much after a period of deprivation. He restricted himself to only a couple of mouthfuls.

As he set the flask down, he realized there was food, too – two slices of bread, and a metal tin containing some sort of purplish-brown paste. At this point hungry enough to eat a mutt, Finnick ate without complaining. The paste tasted a little like olives, and vaguely like chicken, but not much like anything else.

As Finnick had been eating, the man had been pacing restlessly. When he saw Finnick was done, he gestured sharply for him to get up. Using the wall as a support, Finnick pushed himself up, keeping his wounded leg off the ground.

"It doesn't hurt so bad," he told the man. "I think I can walk on it – "

Agony lanced up his leg, making him cry out and stagger against the wall. Gritting his teeth, he clenched his hand around a pipe and waited for the pain to subside.

When it had passed, leaving him with a throbbing ache in the four slashes, he took a deep breath and raised his head. The man was staring at him, almost as if he were afraid.

"I'm all right," gasped Finnick, despite all evidence to the contrary. "Really." Gingerly, he put his foot against the floor, put pressure on it. The pain, though intense, was lesser. Finnick let go of the pipe, took a cautious step. His leg still hurt, but it was manageable.

"I can do it," said Finnick. He looked straight into the man's one eye, willing him to read his own determination.

"I'm getting to the surface. Even if I have to limp the entire way."

* * *

They were close. At least, Finnick hoped they were close. He didn't really know. At this point, he was entirely in the hands of his guide.

Never mind that he was completely lost anyway. He wasn't even considering where they were going, just following the man blindly. All he could think with every other step was that his leg hurt. Step. His leg hurt. Step. His leg hurt. Step. His leg really, really hurt.

The man tapped him on the shoulder, pointing in front of them. Finnick jerked his head up, saw half a dozen channels in the floor of the room they had just entered. A narrow walkway intersected them, and at the other side – glory hallelujah! – was a ladder.

Finnick limped forward, but was stopped in his tracks by the violent smell of petrol. "Oil?" he gasped, eyes watering, and gestured to the liquid in the conduits.

Shrugging, the man walked forward – he still carried all his welding equipment – and began walking across the channels. Gagging a little at the overpowering scent, Finnick followed him. His boots echoed on the metal floor – and as if in response, he heard clanging footsteps from far behind them.

Finnick stopped cold in his tracks, petrified. In front of him, the man swiveled around, eye wide. Dear God, please let it just be some Avoxes…

"Spread out and search!" rang the shout, distorted by distance and multiple echoes. The sounds of feet separated, their pace quickening to match the speeding of Finnick's heart. The man gestured frantically for him to run and Finnick lurched forward, but at the sound of heavy bootsteps behind him he whirled around, staggering –

The Peacekeeper skidded to a halt, but his momentum and the slick floor carried him forward and he crashed into Finnick and they toppled to the ground, Finnick crushed beneath the Peacekeeper, his face inches from the stinking fumes. The Peacekeeper's gun was wedged in between them and with a fierce cry Finnick jerked his elbow up underneath it, jamming the sight under the Peacekeeper's chin. Choking, the Peacekeeper lost his hold on Finnick for a split second. It was all Finnick needed to shove him off with a massive effort and into the channel of oil.

Desperately, Finnick tried to get to his feet, but his injured leg gave out under him and he fell to the floor again, his frantically grasping hand seizing his guide's blowtorch along the way. Behind him, the Peacekeeper rose from the oil like some horrible sea monster, dripping black goo, his breath heavy. Finnick yelled, rolled over onto his back, and automatically fired with whatever was in his hands – the torch.

A jet of blue and orange gas hissed out of the nozzle and the oil-soaked Peacekeeper burst into flame. Finnick shouted again in shock, his yell drowned by the Peacekeeper's own awful screams, and scrambled backwards. Hard hands seized him under his armpits, dragged him to his feet, and Finnick staggered against his guide, watching in horror as the burning Peacekeeper screamed and writhed, stumbling backwards and falling to the solid floor in front of the door – in which more Peacekeepers were rapidly lining up.

There was no time to think. Finnick grabbed his guide and threw themselves backward as he lobbed the still-flaming blowtorch into one of the oil conduits.

A massive wave of hot air slammed Finnick into the ground, the orange light searing his eyelids, his leg in agony, hot blood trickling from his nose onto his upper lip. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Finnick staggered to his feet, holding onto the man's arm for support, and started climbing the ladder. There were shouts and screams behind him, but he didn't look back at the raging inferno, just kept forcing himself to climb up rung after rung after rung…

Suddenly there was open air instead of wet metal, and Finnick flopped over like a fish out of water, lying with his cheek against the cold grating. The man climbed out over him, dragged him all the way off of the ladder into the room. Finnick didn't react – his leg hurt so bad that his eyes were stinging, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting the urge to cry out.

With a loud clang, the man shut the lid over the ladder, locking it securely. Finnick raised his head, saw yet another ladder leading upwards, and wanted to do nothing more than lay there and sob. Did it ever end?

But his guide apparently was indefatigable. Dusting off his jumpsuit, he got to his feet, looking grimly pleased under his eyepatch, and slapped a rung on the second ladder.

"Just give me a minute," panted Finnick. His leg hurt like hell…Blood from his nose had run into his mouth and he spat some out.

But the man shook his head, mimed shooting the lock on the first ladder. With a groan, Finnick pushed himself off the floor, latching onto the man's arm. _Come on, Finnick_, he told himself. _Do you want to see Annie or not?_

And so he climbed.

* * *

The utility room was dark, silent. Cautiously, Finnick pulled himself out of the manhole, holding his breath. For a full ten seconds he was perfectly still, listening. There was nothing.

Lightly, he tapped the ladder. The man climbed up to kneel on the ground beside Finnick.

"It's all clear," whispered Finnick. "I can take it from here."

The man nodded. In the light from the tunnel, Finnick could see his expression, and it was hard to tell, but he thought he looked pleased.

"Thanks, man," said Finnick. "I mean it."

His guide dipped his head, held out his hand. Finnick shook it. As he did so, he pulled on the man's glove, and he saw the ID tattooed in purple on the man's wrist, _P. DAILY…_

Finnick stared at the past victor. But with startling speed, the man released Finnick's hand and disappeared down the ladder, pulling the lid shut over him.

Left alone in the dark room, Finnick paused, trying to make sense of the world he lived in. At last he blotted his still-bleeding nose on his sleeve and painfully got to his feet.

If he remembered correctly, Aurelia lived in one of the corner apartments. He didn't know who owned the center one. Whoever it was, he hoped they were a very, very deep sleeper…

His efforts to move as silently as possible were hampered by his injured leg, which absolutely refused to support his weight for any longer than a fraction of a second. And the floor was concrete. Finnick stopped to consider, then lowered himself to the floor and removed his boots, stashing them inside a supply closet next to a mop and a bottle of bleach. His black-socked feet weren't exactly silent, but they made a hell of a lot less noise than those combat boots. Finnick made his way to the door and opened cautiously.

The hallway was just as dark and deserted. Finnick limped down it, keeping one hand on the wall, grateful for the thick carpet that muffled his footsteps. Quicker than he had expected, he reached the front door. Letting out a long breath of relief, he opened the door, stumbled out, and shut it as quickly and quietly as possible.

The hallway he was in was chilly, the cold seeping from the marble floor through his thin socks. Finnick shivered slightly and looked at the numbers above the door he had just shut. It was 419 – Building 4, Floor 1, Room 9. Aurelia was in 417…

Finnick stopped in front of the light blue door, realizing that Aurelia was probably asleep. There was nothing else he could to, but –

Trembling slightly, he reached out and pressed one grimy finger against her doorbell.

He could just hear the ring of chimes inside the apartment. Finnick waited, one arm bracing himself against the wall, practically choking with nerves. If she wasn't there…if there was someone with her…if she didn't want to help him…

Minutes passed, and nothing happened. Finnick swallowed and rang the doorbell again. He only waited maybe ten seconds before ringing it again.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he heard someone call, voice blurred with sleep. Finnick gritted his teeth, prepared to run just in case…

The door opened. "Finnick!" shrieked Aurelia.

"Shh!" said Finnick, lurching inside and quickly shutting the door behind him.

"Finnick!" cried Aurelia again, although thankfully she didn't seem to have enough air in her lungs to really make any noise. "Oh my God! How did you – what – "

"Aurelia, I need a place to stay," said Finnick rapidly. "Just for a few days until I can sort things out. I'm injured, I gotta get at least a little help – "

"You're hurt?" gasped Aurelia.

"My leg," said Finnick, swaying. "Please – it hurts and I'm exhausted – all I ask is – "

"Oh my God, sit down," said Aurelia. "Of course I'll help, Finnick – "

Weak at the knees with relief, Finnick staggered to an ottoman and practically collapsed onto it. Aurelia checked the curtains to make sure they were closed and switched on a floor lamp, lighting up the room with a soft rosy glow. As she turned back to Finnick, she gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

"That bad, huh?" said Finnick wryly, looking up at her. He knew he looked a mess, unshaven, with his hair all tangled, covered in blood and grime…

"Well, no, but – oh, Finnick!"

"It's all right," said Finnick, voice dragging with weariness. "What time is it?"

"It's – " Rubbing her eyes, Aurelia looked to the little silver clock on the wall. "Three-fifteen." Turning back to Finnick, she asked, "What do you need?"

"A lot of things," said Finnick wearily. "A bed sounds good…"

Aurelia had knelt next to him and was gently unwrapping the bandages from his leg. As she bared the wounds, a sour smell rose up and Finnick saw that the scabbed edges were ringed by lobster-pink inflamed flesh.

Aurelia choked, covering her mouth and nose with one hand. "That looks infected," she managed to say. "You'll need a doctor…"

Finnick stared down at his leg, at the painfully throbbing wounds. Suppose he needed an amputation…

"Well." Aurelia rocked back onto her heels and stood up in one fluid movement. "At least we can clean it. I'll get a bath going for you, Finnick, and then you can sleep." She walked out of the room, legs moving like scissor blades. After a moment, Finnick heard water running. With a grimace of pain he got to his feet, moving to the bathroom in a sort of absurd half-walk, half-hop.

Aurelia was in the palatial bathroom, bending over the marble tub to test the water. Finnick lowered himself onto the edge of the tub, trailing one grimy hand in the water, trying to read the expression on Aurelia's profile. Straightening up, she tucked a strand of pale blonde hair behind one ear.

"It should be fine," she said. "There's soap, shampoo, towels…" She pointed to a folded pile of cloth on the sink countertop. "There's your clothes."

They looked familiar. Finnick raised his eyebrows. "Mine?"

Aurelia blushed slightly. "You left a lot of stuff here when you left, Finnick," she said, looking down at the floor. Extending her foot, she planted her big toe squarely in the middle of one of the little teal diamond-shaped tiles. "So I kept it. Just in case you came back."

Finnick didn't know whether to feel touched or awkward, and settled for tired. "Thanks, Aurelia," he said. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

She suddenly leaned in very close to him, hands on her knees, lips at his ear. "Don't be," she breathed. Then she darted out of the room, silently shutting the door behind her.

Finnick was too weary to feel more than vaguely disconcerted at her behavior. Stripping off his filthy army uniform, he slid into the warm bathwater, hissing between his teeth as his wounds burned and stung. Little jets of water massaged his back, infusing the water with a constant stream of blissful heat…

Within minutes, Finnick was asleep.

* * *

The silkiness of the sheets against his cheek was something Finnick hadn't felt in a long, long time. Eyes closed, Finnick inhaled and smiled, thinking Annie must be beside him, surely…

There was no one there.

Finnick raised his head, blinking in the bright sunlight that was streaming through the gauzy curtains. The ornate little clock on the bedside table showed the time as half-past one.

He felt very peaceful, and still drowsy. He drifted in and out of sleep for a while until he began to get bored with just lying there. Finnick rolled over onto his back, looking up at the silver floral pattern pasted on Aurelia's egg-white ceiling. He became aware that his leg hurt, but not nearly as much as it had before. Kicking off the sheets and cover, he sat up, twisting his leg to inspect the wounds. They were wrapped in neat white gauze. Finnick was tempted to lift up the edges of the bandages to see the difference since last night, but knew it for a bad idea.

His clothes sat in a neat little pile at the foot of the bed. Finnick pulled them on – brown corduroy pants, white T-shirt, periwinkle blue hoodie. Simple clothes, and poor, compared to what Capitol citizens wore. That was probably why Finnick preferred them.

He was pleased that he could walk from the bedroom to the living room without having to hold onto the walls. Aurelia was curled up in the corner of her curved loveseat, wearing silver leggings, a fuschia top, and a morose expression as she flicked through channel after channel on the TV.

"Who bandaged my leg?" asked Finnick.

"I got a doctor to come," said Aurelia. "Don't worry, he doesn't know who you are. He never even saw your face. You were asleep the whole time, anyway." Not once did she look away from the TV, even though she was skipping through stations too quickly to actually be searching for something to watch.

Finnick realized he was hungry and ambled into the kitchen. Aurelia's fridge and cupboards were loaded with delicacies, but Finnick settled for hazelnut butter on toast.

"How's Annie?" he heard Aurelia ask.

Chewing on his toast, Finnick walked back to the doorway, leaning against the frame and watching Aurelia's profile. "My wife is fine," he said quietly. "Thank you for asking."

He didn't miss the swift spasm that contorted Aurelia's face. She stopped flicking through channels, staring blankly at the screen that advertised feathered lingerie.

"I didn't know you got married," she said at last.

Finnick swallowed the last of his toast and brushed his hands off on his pants. "It was almost two months ago," he said. "It was a very small wedding, but…we liked it better that way."

Aurelia's razor-thin eyebrows contracted over the bridge of her nose. The TV switched to another ad, this time an infomercial about the benefits of green-wheat-infused hand lotion. "Where were you married?" she asked. "District Four?"

Finnick blinked. "Yeah," he lied. "Yeah, in District Four."

The infomercial babbled on about smoother skin and smaller pores in a happy singsong voice. Abruptly Aurelia turned the TV off. She still hadn't looked at Finnick.  
"Then I'm very happy for you," she said, but she didn't sound it. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," said Finnick softly.

Aurelia remained seated for a moment longer, back rigid as a statue's. Then she got up and crossed quickly to her room, shutting the door with a snap behind her. Finnick stared at the filigreed silver door with an odd feeling of pity and regret.

With a sigh, he sat down on the loveseat that Aurelia had vacated and turned the TV on to watch the news.

* * *

Finnick would remember that exact time of day for the rest of his life.

It was 8:17. He knew because he had glanced at the wall clock as he had sat down in front of the TV. And then Finnick had been frozen in shock as he saw rebel soldiers pouring through the Capitol's streets.

This was his third day hiding in Aurelia's apartment, and he'd been glued to the TV the entire time, afraid to miss even the slightest hint of what was happening. At first there'd been nothing except warnings to the public about Katniss and Gale and Peeta and Cressida and Pollux. The next morning, he'd seen rebel soldiers really beginning to invade. By evening, citizens were being forced to house those who had run from the rebels' path. A young man had been mistaken for Peeta and clubbed to death by hysterical citizens.

Finnick had stayed up until early in the morning, long after Aurelia had disappeared into her bedroom. In fact, he'd fallen asleep on the sofa with the TV on. In the morning he'd woken up with a stiff neck and a funny taste in his mouth. Momentarily reassured nothing tremendous was happening, he'd showered, eaten a quick breakfast, brushed his teeth. He'd sat down in front of the TV feeling – well, not much of anything, really.

And then whatever story it was had been interrupted by rebel feed, bearing the unmistakable stamp of Beetee's editing and showing wave after wave of rebel soldiers in snow camo suits, gunning down citizen and Peacekeeper alike. Finnick stared at the TV, assaulted by the images, his breathing speeding. He saw a girl no more than five in a canary-yellow coat get cut down like a weed and jumped up with a cry, twisting away from the blaring screen, covering his face in his hands. And suddenly he felt shaken in a way he hadn't since when he first came to District Thirteen…

"Finnick?" Aurelia ran in, clutching a white silk wrapper around her. "Finnick, what's…"

Her voice trailed off as she saw the violence on the TV. "Oh my God," she breathed.

Finnick, trembling, turned around and saw her standing rooted to the spot, staring at the screen with her eyes wide dark pools in a face drained of blood. The next clip that burst into life was of a pod that shot foot-long metal javelins down a street, transfixing both soldiers and hapless citizens into the sides of buildings like bugs pinned down in a display –

"Oh GOD!" shrieked Aurelia. "How can they – NO!"

She screamed, staggering backwards. Finnick leapt over to her, trying to get a grip on her arms as she writhed and screamed again, hands clutching her face as if she could unsee the violence, her horror rapidly developing into hysterics. "Aurelia!" shouted Finnick, but she was unreachable, her face bone-white, her eyes screwed shut.

And suddenly Finnick was done with it. Gripping Aurelia's wrists, he dragged her back to the couch and sat her down, hard. "Aurelia!" he barked. "Stop it! Stop it NOW!" She flinched away from him with childish fear. "You watch kids kill each other every year!" snapped Finnick, fingers digging into her arms. "Why the _hell_ is this any different?"

"Because it's _real_!" wailed Aurelia.

Finnick went cold. Cold, cold, cold, like the depths of an icy black lake. Aurelia shrank back from his glare into the cushions of the sofa.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered with a frightened little hiccup, breaking her wrists from Finnick's hands and drawing them to herself protectively. "Finnick – "

"It's not _real?_" Finnick hissed. "You sit here, with your pink cushions and silver clocks, and you tell me that what I went through isn't _real?_"

"Finnick, I'm sorry!" cried Aurelia, her eyes filling with tears, but he had already stood and gone to get his boots from the closet. When she realized what he was doing, she leapt up with a gasp and ran over to him, seizing his arm. "Finnick, don't leave!" she begged.

He jerked his arm free and sat down to lace his boots. Aurelia threw herself to her knees next to him, tears running down her lotion-softened, silk-dried cheeks. "Where are you going?" she whined pitifully. "I'm sorry about what I said – You can't be going outside – you'll die – "

"I don't really give a damn," said Finnick, standing up. "Besides, you'll get over it."

"No!" Aurelia's violent denial brought her to her feet as well. "I'll never love anyone but you!"

"Really?" Finnick raised an eyebrow at her. "Then whose jacket is this?"

Aurelia stared at the jacket he had pulled out of the closet, her lip trembling. It was a very expensive jacket, made of thick, buttery leather the color of coffee beans, lined with fine black silk – a definitely masculine garment.

"That's no one's," said Aurelia in a tiny voice. "Just a friend's."

"Well, I'm going to have to borrow it," said Finnick, putting it on. "Your 'friend' won't mind, right? Besides, I don't think you want me to freeze. It's pretty cold out there, you know."

She didn't reply, just stood there staring at him with mute appeal. Finnick went to the door with every intention of simply walking out, but his conscience gave him a pang and he turned around with a sigh.

"Don't look like that, Aurelia," he said, in a much gentler voice. "Don't waste yourself on me. You know…fish in the sea and all that."

Aurelia sniffed, face dripping with tears, but seemed unable to speak. At last, she managed to say, "Well, you'd know all about fish, wouldn't you?"

Finnick smiled a little. "I guess so," he said. "Bye, Aurelia."

"Bye, Finnick," she whispered. "And good luck."

"Thanks," said Finnick softly.

* * *

And so Finnick left her apartment to make his way to the City Circle. He ran through the pastel streets, dodging snowflakes and bullets, feeling the slow burn return to his leg and the fear to his heart. He heard the screams, heard the hiss and crack of metal hitting its target, and when he had to throw himself to the ground, sensing the slush that covered the ground melt its way into his jeans, he saw warm red blood pooling in between the rainbow-colored tiles and melting the snowflakes that fell on its scarlet surface. The cold that gripped him, that chilled his spine and numbed his fingers, had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the brightly-dressed bodies that lay around him with blood on their breasts and nothingness in their eyes. But he kept going, didn't turn back, because some inexorable force within him was saying _Go on. _He didn't know why, only that it must be obeyed – and he did so unquestioningly. He could not go directly to the City Circle, but was forced to take detours to avoid pods, rebel soldiers, piles of dead bodies. And so it was that Finnick arrived at the City Circle only when the last wisps of smoke were clearing over the burnt and shattered bodies of hundreds of children.

And still Finnick didn't stop. He walked right through, stepping past scattered curls and tiny hands lying limp and pathetic, and he marched right up to the woman who was also stepping over the destruction she had caused, flanked by her personal army and District Thirteen reporters and with snowflakes falling unmelted on her iron-gray hair, and he pushed his way right through her security to stand in front of her. She stopped in her tracks, hard eyes widening. Finnick stopped too, standing with both feet planted square in front of the tiny body of a little girl. They all halted, all those surrounding the woman, waiting for what she would do, their breath steaming in the icy air.

At last, she spoke. "Get out of the way, soldier," she said.

Finnick looked at her.

"My name is Finnick Odair."


	16. Alternate Pt 2: The Truth Can Hurt

Annie's eyes were huge turquoise pools in her bloodless face. She stared at Finnick, lips trembling, feathery eyelashes stark against her white skin.

And then she collapsed like a cut flower.

Finnick lunged forward, caught her body before it hit the floor, alarmed at how light it was. With infinite gentleness, he carried her out of the crowd of District Thirteen citizens reuniting with the military, away from the hovercrafts that had brought all the civilians to the Capitol, into the great mess hall where he could sit down on a plastic chair in a corner and be with no one but her.

Her arms had tightened around his neck as he had been walking, and when he sat down, cradling her tenderly, she pressed her face to his neck, wetting it with her hot tears.

"You were dead," she sobbed, body shaking under Finnick's hands. "You were dead…"

Finnick pushed his face against her tousled hair, held her closer and realized he could feel ribs through her clothing, and swallowed hard. "It's all right, mermaid," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm here."

But she only cried harder, with real anguish behind her tears. She pressed her slight body against Finnick's, fingers clenching in the leather of his jacket. "Shh," soothed Finnick, running a hand up and down her back. "Shh, it's all right."

"I didn't cry when you died," gasped Annie. "I was so scared they'd find me…" And _that_ look was back in her eyes…

Finnick bowed his head, eyes shut in pain. "Don't worry," he murmured, holding her close. "No one will find you. You're safe."

* * *

Finnick, with an orderly's help, found Gale in the barracks rec room.

"Finnick!" Gale strode towards him, shoulders sagging in relief. "Jesus Christ, man…" He abruptly pulled Finnick into a rough hug, thumping him on the back. Finnick, startled but gratified at this show of emotion, cleared his throat and stepped back.

"How're you?" he asked.

Gale shrugged, then winced. "Not too bad," he said. "Got a couple bullets in the shoulder, no big deal…"

"Uh-huh," said Finnick, grinning. "No big deal. Sure."

"Really, it isn't," said Gale. Looking around the crowded room with distaste, he added, "Let's find somewhere else to talk."

They ended up on the roof, looking out at a substantially-darkened nighttime Capitol. Finnick watched in surprise as Gale took a cigarette out of the pack in his uniform pocket and lit it. "I didn't know you smoked."

"I only just picked it up," said Gale, putting his lighter back in his pocket. Leaning on the iron railing, he took a drag from his cigarette. "So what happened to you?"

Finnick leaned his forearms on the rail next to him, looking out at the city. "Well, when Katniss threw that bomb, it killed all the mutts but it blew up the ladder, too…I probably would've wandered forever down there if I hadn't run into an Avox who guided me to the surface. Then I just holed out in an old friend's apartment until I saw that things were coming to a close." He looked at Gale. "What about you? Were you with Katniss the whole time?"

"Most of it," said Gale, breathing out smoke. "Right at the end, before she hit the City Circle, I got captured by a couple of Peacekeepers. I escaped, but got these – " he rolled his injured shoulder back " – as souvenirs." He turned his head to look at Finnick seriously. "You – you know what happened, with the kids?"

"Yeah, I heard," said Finnick grimly. "I never thought Coin'd do something like that…"

Gale looked down at his feet. After a while he spoke again. "How's Annie?"

"She's…all right." Finnick knotted his hands together, took a deep breath. "Thinking I died…it really made things worse for her. But she's getting better." Inside of Finnick was a little pearl of happiness that glowed whenever he thought of what Annie had whispered to him that one night, when she had told him of the new life growing inside her. Sometime he would tell Gale, Evans, the whole world. But not yet. Right now it belonged to him and Annie.

"How's Katniss?" asked Finnick.

Sighing, Gale shook his head, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. "I haven't seen her," he said in a low voice. "She was right there when the bombs went off…she's a mess…"

"Physically or mentally?" asked Finnick cautiously.

"Both," said Gale muttered. "Her sister, Prim, was killed…"

Finnick lowered his head in sympathetic pain. After a minute, he asked, "But why don't you visit her?"

"I can't face her," Gale admitted. His face was haunted, guilty. "If those bombs had gone off five seconds later…if she'd arrived five seconds earlier…I can't stand the thought…"

"But – " Finnick still didn't understand. "What does it matter? You didn't have anything to do with it."

Gale raised his head to look at Finnick, eyes tormented. "I had everything to do with it," he said hoarsely. "Finnick, that was my idea. My order."

"Yours…" Finnick stared at Gale. "How – "

"We dropped the first bomb," said Gale, looking back at the city, voice shaking as he tried to explain. "Then our medics came in. Then we dropped all the others, hoping everyone would believe that this was the Capitol's last, horrible effort to kill us. Beetee didn't want to, but Coin approved it, and so…"

Finnick was speechless. At last, he managed gasp "_Why_? For God's sake, Gale, why?"

"I don't know!" burst out Gale, fists clenched in frustration. "It seemed right, seemed like the strategic thing to do…You don't understand, I would have done anything, _anything_ to end the Capitol's domination over us – anything!" His passionate outburst done, he fell silent. "And now I've lost Katniss," he said quietly, dropping his head.

"You don't know that – "

"I killed her sister!"

"Gale, she cares about you, I know she does," said Finnick firmly. "I was with her when you were gone rescuing Peeta and Annie, and she was worried sick about you – "

"That was a long time ago," said Gale brusquely, tossing his cigarette down. "And we were both with her when she decided to keep Peeta alive even though he was a raging, hijacked, son of a b-tch – " Gale's voice was starting to shake, and his face was furrowed in pain. "We've been growing farther and farther apart, and now – I've lost her!" With a gasp he jerked his head down to his clenched fists, his shoulders shaking with dry sobs.

Finnick stared at Gale, unsure of what to do. Then he moved closer to him and put his arm around Gale's shoulders, gripping them tightly, trying to express his commiseration at a breaking heart.

Gale did not respond, but remained hunched over the railing, silent as he gradually brought himself under control. At last he straightened and Finnick removed his arm.

"Sorry," said Gale, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand and turning away. "Sh-t – "

"It's fine," said Finnick.

"If you ever mention this to any of the guys – " Gale rounded on Finnick with his finger pointed threateningly.

"Would I?" asked Finnick. "Really?"

"Guess not," said Gale. Turning back away, he cleared his throat violently.

Finnick against the rail again, watching Gale with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. "Are you staying here?" he asked.

"No," said Gale, facing Finnick again. "No, once I get cleared, I'm shipping out with the other units to Two. There's still serious resistance there."

"I don't envy you," said Finnick quietly.

"At least there I have an excuse for not seeing her," said Gale, voice rough. "And if I get blown up, maybe she'll think better of me."

"Don't say that," said Finnick. It felt horribly inadequate, but was all he could say.

Gale wandered away, lighting another cigarette. After a while, Finnick left the rooftop.

* * *

There was only one person Finnick cared about now, and that was Annie.

He never left her side – not to eat, or sleep, or anything. He needed her, and she needed him more than she ever had since those first heartbreaking days after she won her Games. Finnick didn't bother now about wars, or presidents, or hovercrafts. His world was bounded in by blue-green eyes and brown silky hair.

So when he walked into the meeting room, with Annie's hand wrapped in his, called there for some unspecified purpose by that woman Coin, it took him a minute to switch back to his old mindset that remembered what had happened and what still could.

Beetee was there too, sitting in his wheelchair. Finnick drew out a chair for Annie next to him and seated himself on her other side. "Hi, Beetee," he said.

The light flashing on his glasses, Beetee nodded to him. "Hello, Finnick," he said. "Good morning, Annie." He spoke pleasantly, but there was a grimness to his mouth and a wariness in his eyes behind those thick lenses that Finnick wondered about.

Peeta and Haymitch entered then. Finnick nodded to both of them, and Annie managed a shy smile for Peeta, though she avoided Haymitch's gaze. Johanna she ignored, but when Enobaria strolled in, she turned away from the District Two victor's hatchet face with a shudder and hid her face in Finnick's side under the shelter of his arm.

The last person to enter was Katniss, who looked better than Finnick expected, though definitely not well, her eyes dazed and haunted. "What's this?" she asked.

"We're not sure," said Haymitch wryly. "It appears to be a gathering of the remaining victors."

This was all of them? Sh-t…

"We're all that's left?" asked Katniss, eyes widening.

"The price of celebrity. We were targeted from both sides," said Beetee. No wonder he had been looking grim. "The Capitol killed the victors they suspected of being rebels. The rebels killed those thought to be allied with the Capitol."

Finnick thought of Connor, and his murdered family. He was sure Annie did, too, because she pressed herself closer to his side.

Johanna was frowning at Enobaria. "So what's she doing here?"

"_She_ is protected under what we call the Mockingjay Deal." The woman Coin had walked through the door behind Katniss, for once unaccompanied. Finnick immediately went tense. "Wherein Katniss Everdeen agreed to support the rebels in exchange for captured victors' immunity. Katniss has upheld her side of the bargain – " Was Finnick imagining it, or did he really see that swift flash of displeasure on her face? " – and so shall we."

Enobaria grinned, her thin lips pressed together. Johanna scowled. "Don't look so smug," she snapped, folding her arms. "We'll kill you anyway."

Coin closed the door with a snap, and Finnick immediately felt trapped. "Sit down, please, Katniss."

Katniss chose the empty chair in between Beetee and Annie, who glanced at her with a slight frown – perhaps because she instinctively understood Katniss' condition. But there was no chance for conversation. The woman started talking immediately in clipped tones that might have been orders.

"I've asked you here to settle a debate. Today we will execute Snow." That was news to Finnick, though he still felt a vindictive satisfaction at the thought of Snow, dead. "In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths." Annie tensed, and Finnick rubbed a hand on her arm soothingly. "However, the suffering in the districts has been so extreme that these measures appear insufficient to the victims. In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship. However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this."

A vicious surge of hatred for the woman caused Finnick's fist to clench. So that was the only reason a complete massacre against a mostly harmless people was wrong, was it?

"So, an alternative has been placed on the table," she continued. "Since my colleagues and I can come to no consensus, it has been agreed that we will let the victors decide. A majority of five will approve the plan, and in event of a tie, my vote will decide it. No one may abstain from the vote." Finnick narrowed his eyes at her, already sure he would vote against whatever it was. "What has been proposed is that in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power."

What.

The.

F—k.

"_What?_" said Johanna.

"We hold another Hunger Games using Capitol children." The woman's face was completely emotionless. She might have been ordering the decrease of food rations back at Thirteen.

"Are you joking?" asked Peeta, his eyebrows scrunched over his blue eyes.

"No." As if the woman ever joked. "I should also tell you that if we do hold the Games, it will be known it was done with your approval, although the individual breakdown of your votes will be kept secret for your own security."

No! No, no, and no again! Every fiber of Finnick's body screamed _Wrong!_ This was the very thing they had been fighting _against_, hadn't it? Breaking from his shocked disbelief, Finnick looked down at Annie, and saw the strangest expression on her face. She was staring at the woman with her eyebrows arched dangerously, her eyelids half-lowered, and her lips parted slightly over her teeth.

"Was this Plutarch's idea?" asked Haymitch.

"It was mine." Of course. Who else would come up with something so utterly wrong? "It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life. You may cast your votes."

"No!" said Peeta immediately. "I vote no, of course! We can't have another Hunger Games!"

"Why not?" snapped Johanna, before Finnick could support Peeta. "It seems very fair to me. Snow even has a granddaughter. I vote yes."

Annie's soft cry of "No!" was lost behind Enobaria's words. "So do I. Let them have a taste of their own medicine."

"This is why we rebelled! Remember?" Peeta looked straight at Finnick, and for once they completely understood each other.

"I vote no as well," said Finnick, as firmly as possible. "Annie?" He looked down at her, meeting her eyes. She nodded, frowning in her anger against the woman.

"Annie votes no, too," said Finnick, almost belligerently. "So that's two for, three against."

"It would set a bad precedent," said Beetee, stocky and solid in his determination. "We have to stop viewing one another as enemies. At this point, unity is essential for our survival. No."

"We're down to Katniss and Haymitch." The woman seemed completely unconcerned that they were only one vote away from losing her plan. Finnick realized she was counting on Haymitch's bitterness, and Katniss'…what?

There was a long silence as she thought, looking at the white rose she had brought in a glass of water, chewing her lip. At last she voted, yes. "For Prim."

"No!" Finnick jumped up, glaring at her fiercely. "Katniss, no! You know how the Hunger Games ruined our lives! Do you want to do that to more innocent children? Children who have no right to suffer for the mistakes of their parents and grandparents?"

"Sit down, Finnick," said the woman coldly.

"No!" he shouted. A dark heat was rising inside him. "Do you think I'm just going to _sit_ here and let you carry out your sick ideas? Katniss, back me up here!"

But she didn't answer. She just turned away, arms folded, biting her lip. Finnick's hands fell limply at his sides as the truth hit him with all the weight of a thousand tons.

"Oh my God," he breathed, staring at her. "You really are just a mascot."

"Don't say that!" burst out Peeta, jumping up as well, but Finnick ignored him.

"We followed you," said Finnick, betrayal breaking through his shock. "We trusted you! We all believed you were the leader – "

"No – "

"You were supposed to be this shining beacon!" The words tore out of Finnick, harsh and desperate, and Katniss drew back uncertainly. "Every one of those rebels who died did it for you, because they believed you were leading us towards a better future!"

"I am!" Her protest was small and unconvincing.

"No, you're not." Finnick's voice was heavy with disgust. "You don't even believe that yourself." She looked down, upset, and Haymitch frowned at Finnick. "We all know who the _real_ leader is."

Slowly, everyone's eyes turned to the woman. She looked as unruffled as ever.

"Congratulations, Soldier Odair," she said. And something in her tone made the hairs on the back of Finnick's neck stand on end. "But don't look so surprised. I'm sure you're no stranger to the fact that sometimes illusion is more comfortable than reality."

Annie's trembling hand found its way onto Finnick's arm. He took it, holding it firmly in both his hands as he met the woman's stare. "There's still one vote left," said Finnick softly. "If it's against, then you don't get your Hunger Games."

"But if it's for," said the woman, "then that brings us to a tie. Which I will break by voting _yes_."

"Well then." Finnick looked at the grizzled victor at the end of the table. "I guess it's up to Haymitch."

Everyone's heads swiveled around to face him, waiting expectantly for his answer. He was not looking at any of them, but at his own interlaced fingers. To say the air was thick with tension was a gross understatement.

Haymitch cleared his throat. "I'm with the Mockingjay."

"Excellent," said the woman, already turning to go. "Now we really must take our places for the execution."

As she left, Finnick kicked the leg of the table with a frustrated growl, then fell back into his seat. Annie rubbed his arm soothingly, leaning towards him. "It's all right, Finnick," she said.

He stared at her in disbelief. "All right? How can you say that, Annie?"

She dropped her eyes, biting her lip. A hard hand fell on Finnick's shoulder and he looked up. It was Haymitch.

"What?" snapped Finnick.

The aging victor didn't react, just nodded towards the flurry of activity in the room. "The execution's about to start. We'd better go."

Annie's hand on his arm trembled, and Finnick wound his fingers through hers, though he did not look away from Haymitch. "Why did you do it?" he said quietly, searching his gray eyes for an answer. "What could possibly have motivated you?"

He opened his mouth to answer. But the voice that called "Finnick! Annie!" wasn't his. It was the woman's.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked, but it might as well have been a command. Finnick rose with Annie, held her close to his side as they followed Johanna out to in front of the president's mansion. He didn't want her here, knew Annie would much rather have been somewhere else, but he couldn't send her off by herself and there was no one else around he trusted with her.

Several rows of seats had been set up for the important attendees. Finnick slid into a seat next to Peeta, keeping a firm hold on Annie's hand. As she sat down, she pulled her feet under her and pressed herself against him.

"I don't want to see him," she said into Finnick's shoulder.

She was referring to Snow. "I know, mermaid, I know," said Finnick gently, freeing one arm to stroke her hair. But he himself was staring avidly up at the balcony, waiting for the moment when his nemesis would finally appear for the very last time…

The woman walked out in spotless black, hair glistening in the cold sun. Most people in the crowd cheered. Finnick did not. Nor did he applaud when Katniss walked out. She would always be a friend, of course, but never again would he look to her for leadership. Her vote for this new Hunger Games and the disastrous leading of Squad 451 into the Capitol had fixed that.

At last the hated man himself appeared on the balcony. Finnick's upper lip pulled back instinctively in contempt as he saw how weak he was, how the guards holding him provided more support than restraint. When they tied his hands behind a post, it wasn't because he was going to run away but because he could not stand unsupported. Opposite him, Katniss drew her bow, put an arrow to the string. Annie had hid her face in his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, but he was quivering with vicious anticipation. If it had been he up there, Snow would be long dead…But the two of them just stared at each other, the dying president and the failed Mockingjay.

And Katniss shot President Coin instead.

* * *

The hum of the hovercraft as it sped towards District Four was barely louder than the sound of the wind rushing against its metal hull. It was enough to lull Annie to sleep, cradled in Finnick's arms, as he lounged in one of the padded wall seats and watched the distant scenery flash by through the window.

It had taken him two weeks to get the authorization and transportation to get out of the Capitol, two agonizing weeks of uncertainty and fear. Because even though the woman was dead, there was any number of equally ruthless people who could take her place. But Paylor from District Eight had taken her place instead, and Katniss would be let off on plea of insanity. He'd said his goodbyes, to Gale, Evans, Beetee. And now he and Annie were finally going _home_.

She stirred in his arms, raised her head and blinked sleepily. "Where are we?"

"Not sure," said Finnick. "Close to the coast, I think."

"Mm." Annie straightened, shifting to a more upright position on his lap. "Finnick, how do we know President Paylor is a good leader?"

"What?" Taken aback by the abrupt question, Finnick looked at her. "Where did that come from?"

Annie ignored his question. "How do we know she's a good leader?" she persisted.

Finnick shrugged. "We don't," he said. "Not really. She did a good job with Eight – "

"So why is she president?" Annie demanded.

Bemused by Annie's sudden interest, Finnick shrugged. "Because there's no one better, I guess."

"So what if she turns out like Coin?" asked Annie vehemently, eyebrows slanting downwards. "What if she turns out _worse_?"

Finnick grinned. "Then we'll just get ourselves a new president."

"No!" Annie's eyes filled with angry tears and she beat her fists on his chest. Finnick shushed her, taking her wrists, but she would not be soothed. "Finnick, don't you see? It'll never end! It'll just keep going, and going, and going! And _why_ are you happy?"

"Why?" Smiling, Finnick tilted his face towards hers. "I'm happy because you're safe. I'm happy because you're here. And I'm happy because you're wrong."

Annie frowned at him. "Wrong about what?"

"That it'll never end. It will, Annie. Someday all the Snows and Coins will be gone, or they'll be so powerless they won't be able to bother the decent people. You'll see."

She did not look like she agreed with him. "How do you know?"

"Annie, Annie." Finnick brought his face close to hers, touched her nose with his. "Haven't you learned that it's not what you know, but what you believe?"

"That's rubbish," she said, laughing.

"Is it?" Gently, Finnick slid her off his lap and stood up to look out the windows. A flash of light caught his attention and he walked over to one, leaning against the sun-heated glass.

"Finnick?" Annie came to his side. "What is it?"

He pointed to the horizon, where the sun shone off the glassy blueness of the sea. "It's the ocean, mermaid," he said softly.

Entranced, she leaned forward as well, her hands resting on the metal rail. Finnick slipped behind her, brought his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. And together, flooded in sunlight, they watched the light dance on never-ceasing waves.


	17. Deleted Scenes

_This was originally going to happen in _Frayed_, in the second scene (before the airing of the propo and Peeta's warning of the attack on Thirteen) until I realized that Beetee stays in Special Weaponry the entire time. I liked the character interactions too much to get rid of it completely, though._

"Hey, Beetee."

"Afternoon, Finnick." Beetee pressed a couple buttons and his wheelchair swiveled and rolled over to where Finnick stood in the doorway of Special Weaponry. "Come to play with your trident?"

Finnick grinned. "Don't tempt me." The glossy black weapon was not only a marvel of aesthetic design, but packed with every conceivable type of technology from voice recognition to heat-seeking sensors – and still miraculously maintained the balance and handling abilities that Finnick expected from a less complicated weapon. "Actually, I'm here to take you to Command. Apparently there's some new propos or something."

"Or something?" Beetee's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. "Finnick, if I'm right – and I think I am – I've found the Capitol feed."

"Serious?" Finnick's eyes opened wide, and he grinned. "No way!"

"Now, don't get all excited," Beetee mock-grumbled, his wheelchair humming past Finnick. "I'm not a hundred percent sure…"

"Since when has that stopped you?" teased Finnick, taking the handles on the back of the chair and helping steer him out the doors and down the hallway.

Beetee snorted. "Kids these days," he said. "Always seem to think they're right."  
"I'm twenty-four, Beetee," Finnick reminded him. "I'm hardly a kid."

"That's right." Beetee settled back meditatively in his chair. "I don't know, I keep thinking you're younger."

"Well, I've never acted my age…at least, that's what my dad used to tell me."

"No, it's not that…I don't know." They continued in silence, Beetee thinking, Finnick sober at the thought of Riley.

* * *

_Continuation of the scene in _Prelude to Destruction II,_ when Plutarch tells Squad 451 they won't really be fighting. It was cut because it wasn't really necessary and the chapter was long enough as it is._

Finnick balled his fists up in frustration. "What you're saying is, we won't be in actual combat," said Gale, eyebrows pulled together stormily.

"You will be in combat, but perhaps not always on the front line," said Plutarch. He was having a hard time meeting any of their eyes, especially Boggs'. Their commander looked about as friendly as a granite cliff. "If one can even isolate a front line in this type of war," Plutarch added in a futile attempt to mend matters somewhat.

"None of us wants that," said Finnick, frowning. The others backed him up with nods and mutters of agreement. "We're going to fight."

"You're going to be as useful to the war effort as possible," corrected Plutarch. Finnick immediately bridled at his tone: that of a parent reprimanding recalcitrant children. Who the _hell _was he to tell him what to do?

"And it's been decided that you are of the most value on television," continued Plutarch. "Just look at the effect Katniss had running around in that Mockingjay suit. Turned the whole rebellion around. Do you notice how she's the only one not complaining? It's because she understands the power of that screen."

Katniss _was_ silent. That was odd. Finnick would have expected her to be one of the most vociferous in her complaints. "But it's not all pretend, is it?" she said. "That'd be a waste of talent."

Well, maybe more could be gained by false compliance than outright protestation. "Don't worry. You'll have plenty of real targets to hit," said Plutarch. "But don't get blown up. I've got enough on my plate without having to replace you. Now get to the Capitol and put on a good show."

Nodding to Boggs, he turned and left, his mincing steps as he tried to navigate the mud contrasting ludicrously with his bulk. But Finnick was in no mood to laugh – and neither was anyone else.

"They can't do this!" hissed Jackson the minute Plutarch was out of earshot. "Tell them they can't! They have no right to keep us from fighting."

Boggs sighed angrily, rubbing his face in one hand. "I'm afraid they do."

"No!" Leeg 1's outburst was accompanied by her sister's loud complaint of, "But that's not fair!"

"Who said life is fair?" snapped Boggs. "I don't call the shots here. The sh-t rolls downhill, so don't blame everything on me." He glared at them all for a moment, eight subdued, frustrated soldiers. "Well, if we're not actually fighting, there's no point continuing training. Dismissed."

It was a bitter remark, made out of his own anger rather than any practical reasoning. But it was clear no one was in any mood to keep training. Finnick moodily returned his gun to its rack, ejecting the unused cartridges and letting them fall back into their container with a metallic clatter.

Gale came up next to him, cursing steadily under his breath. "Bloody brilliant," he muttered savagely, slamming his gun into its spot. "Absolutely fandamntastic."

"Tell me about it," said Finnick.

"What's the point of any of this if we're not going to be fighting?" Gale demanded angrily. "What's the point of being the best damn sharpshooter in the entire army if I don't even get the chance to shoot at Snow?"

"They'll probably be giving him a public execution, anyway," said Finnick, starting his trek through the mire back to the trapdoor. "Make it all big and official…"

"And painless," said Gale, ire rankling in his tone. "Not long and drawn-out like it should be…"

His eyes met Finnick's, and understanding flashed between them. They both wanted Snow to pay personally for what he had done to their homes, their families, their loved ones….

* * *

_Gale, during the rescue mission. Written just for the heck of it._

Gale pressed himself against the concrete wall, painfully aware of his harsh breathing in the dark hallway. Ahead of him, a clearly non-military personnel was passing –

Leaping out from hiding, Gale seized the man from behind, one gloved hand clamped firmly over his mouth, the other pressing the muzzle of his gun in between the man's shoulderblades.

"Which cell is occupied?" he hissed into the man's ear. Three plain, gray doors stood in front of them, but according to Intelligence, only one held a prisoner. The other two were booby traps.

The man swallowed convulsively, but didn't answer, though he was sweating like a pig. Gale pushed his gun harder into his back. "Tell me," he demanded. "Unless you want to be the guinea pig and find out."

Whimpering, the man jerked his head towards the right-hand cell. Gale dragged him over. "Open it," he snapped.

With trembling fingers, the man tapped a code into the nine-digit keypad. The metal door slid open, revealing a young woman huddled in the corner, her long brown hair her only covering. Gale only glanced at her to make sure it was Annie Cresta before shooting the man in the spine, the sound of the blast deadened by both a silencer and the man's flesh. Gale lowered him to the ground to avoid a thump (hand still clamped on his mouth) and shot him again in the head to be sure.

Grim task finished, he stepped away from the corpse. The woman in the cell watched him with wide blue-green eyes, visibly trembling. Though she was nude, the last thing Gale felt was desire – pity, rather. She was obviously someone fragile who needed to be protected.

"Miss Cresta?" he said, keeping his voice down, one hand stretched out towards her. She flinched away as he walked closer and crouched in front of her. His boots clumped on the metal floor. "Miss Cresta, it's all right. I'm here to rescue you." She only stared at him, arms crossed protectively in front of her chest.

"Here." Gale reached back and tugged the white coat off the man he had shot. "Put this on."

He tossed it to her, but it fell limply to the floor at her feet. She still hadn't taken her eyes off him, or stopped looking like a deer in headlights.

Gale sighed, tried again. "Miss Cresta, my name is Gale Hawthorne. I'm a soldier from District Thirteen, and I'm here to rescue you and take you back there." Still, no response. "Finnick is waiting for you there."

Her eyes opened even wider, eyelashes fluttering, and her eyes parted. "Finnick is there?" she gasped faintly.

Gale nodded, reaching a hand out to here. "He's there, and he's waiting," he said. "I promise. Now put the coat on, and let's go."

Slowly, she reached out and drew the fabric around her, pushing her arms through the sleeves, ignoring the blood that got smeared on her pale skin. But she made no move to stand.

"Oh, for Christ's sake." The schedule they were on was so tight it would keep out water. Gale didn't have time for this. Ignoring her gasp of protest, he picked Annie up and stood up with her grasped firmly in his arms, holding her slight weight easily.

And then a curious thing happened. As Gale hurried back to the rendezvous point, he found his shoulders instinctively and protectively hunching around the fail, trembling body he held, his hands becoming less grasping, more gentle. Suddenly he felt the overwhelming need to protect Annie Cresta, no matter what the cost. He supposed it was because of her own weakness. He'd never felt this way about Katniss.

* * *

_Well, it's been one heck of a long fanfiction, but I like it. Thanks to everyone who commented, it really means a lot. And thanks for sticking with Finnick the entire way._


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